Mr Monk and the End of the Road
by Bob Wright
Summary: NOW COMPLETED. As he gathers with friends and family to celebrate his show, Monk ponders everything that has passed and what may lie ahead, little suspecting that someone in his inner circle is conspiring to kill him.
1. The Last Plot of Dale the Whale

MR. MONK AND THE END OF THE ROAD

BY

BOB WRIGHT

* * *

AUTHOR'S NOTE: And so here it is, the last story in the series that you've been following over the last five years. The timing of the series's ending works out perfectly with it in general. I'll probably do a one-shotter after the final episode airs to give a complete wrap-up, but this will be the last full-length story; if some time down the line I feel there's another one I can tell, that will be told as a "lost" story taking place earlier than this one, which will close out the continuity of this series. So if you wish to review, this may well be your last opportunity to do so for one of my Monk stories.

A note on relativity to the actual canonical series: thus far the stories have taken place in relation to the exact point in time in the series at the time they were written, during or after seasons. I'll lay out that this story takes place before anything that will happen in the 8th and final season, so that anything that happens during that will interfere as little as possible with the events in the tale you are about to read. If something is messed up down the line, there's little I can do about it, but then again, don't hold what I write here as canon--only what makes it on the air should be considered canon.

If there are complaints I sometimes get, it is that sometimes I overload stories with characters. It's certainly a valid point to make, and one I should consider when trying to write for profit; if you feel this way, though, then you may not like this story as much.

As this is the end, thanks of course are in order, first off to Andy Breckman and the rest of the show's creative team for eight great years, including Tom Scharpling, David Hoberman, David Breckman, Daniel Dratch, Hy Conrad, Joe Toplyn, Fern Field, Anthoyn Santa Croce, Lee Goldberg, and the countless other members of the crew and staff. And of course many deep thanks to the cast for giving us characters we care so much for, to Tony Shalhoub, Traylor Howard, Ted Levine, Jason Gray-Stanford, Stanley Kamel, Hector Elizondo, Bitty Schram, Emmy Clarke, Kane Richotte, Max Morrow, Tim Bagley, John Turturro, Jarrod Paul, Glenne Headley, Amy Sedaris, Dan Hedaya, and everyone else who helped make the show memorable. And last but not least, the sincerest thanks to you the readers for following this series so devotedly; I couldn't have possibly gotten as much satisfaction out of doing it without your support and patronage.

Adrian Monk and all related characters and indicia are registered trademarks of USA Network, Mandeville Films, and Touchstone Television. And now, sit back and enjoy one last trip into the world of Adrian Monk...

* * *

"Rise and shine," came the call up the cellblock, "Nine o'clock, time to get up, everyone. Beiderbeck, your attorney's here."

"Great," the fat man in cell #102 growled. He pushed his wheelchair back away from the bars. He was hoping one of the few remaining members of his once vast legal team had good news for him, because the clock was ticking for him. From his cell, he could very clearly make out the execution chamber at the end of the hall, and knew that in about a week, give or take a few days, he'd be making the one-way trip into it.

The breadth of his fall from the top still rankled him deeply. There had been a time when people cowered at the mere mention of his name. Now he was reduced to this: spending his last days in a narrow, cramped cell with no amenities at all and being treated like a peasant to boot. And it was all Adrian Monk's fault, as usual.

_MONK_. The very thought of the man's name made his blood boil. And to think that just over a year ago, he'd been this close to switching positions in life with Monk. Instead, everything had backfired in his face, as not only had his plan to kill the governor been thwarted, but both former Sheriff Rollins and the disgraced lieutenant governor had turned state's evidence against him to save themselves from the death penalty (and it had worked; Rollins had managed to get life with the chance for parole in seventy years, while the lieutenant governor ended up with a cushy twelve year sentence). Beiderbeck, meanwhile, had been stripped of all his privileges--his God-given privileges, he thought with a growl--and at the trial been found guilty of attempted first degree murder and sent straight to death row. The only bright spot was that at least he'd be spending his time with other people whose lives Adrian Monk had ruined--the closest thing to a family Beiderbeck had ever had.

But the bad news hadn't stopped there for him. The FBI had launched an all-encompassing investigation of his many businesses, and in the process had uncovered massive amounts of fraud and extortion, the scope of which rivaled anything Enron's executives had ever done. Thirty of Beiderbeck's top aides had been arrested and charged with a plethora of white collar crimes. Eleven had immediately chickened out and testified against their superior in exchange for reduced sentences. The rest had ended up with sentences between forty and five years, and Beiderbeck was saddled with another forty year sentence on top of his death sentence. He'd tried to appeal to the state justice department for a more lenient sentence, but in a sobering example of how much things had changed, the attorney general had not only refused his bribe but had immediately gone public about the attempt, as a result of which Beiderbeck was stripped of the right of all outside contact.

Not long thereafter, the governor had signed an executive order authorizing the speeding up of executions to ease death row overcrowding. And so, one at a time, Beiderbeck's "family" had taken the walk down the green mile to their doom. Each one had handled it a little differently. Infamous serial killer Leonard Stokes, already with three death sentences against him before he'd run into Monk, had gone first, laughing maniacally all the way down the hall just like the deranged sociopath he was. Stuart Babcock, with a whopping twelve death sentences, one for each of his victims, had gone next; he gulped a little when the guards took him from his cell, but had managed to keep it together to the end. Pat Van Rankin, who'd almost done the world a favor by trying to kill Monk's brother, had shown no remorse when his time had come and had gone out straight-backed and proud with a defiant expression. Former lottery salesgirl Vicky Salinas had been the same, showing no remorse at all as she was led away. Disgraced science teacher Derek Phillbey--Beiderbeck's former partner in crime during his attempt to have Monk killed off during his appearance on Jeopardy--was an entirely different story. Overcome with guilt for his crimes, Phillbey had tried to make a break for it when the door to his cell had been opened, and had made it down to the end of the hall and the door out of death row before the guards had caught up to him. Writhing wildly and begging desperately for his life, Phillbey had sobbed like a baby all the way down the hall--although he'd taken the chance to give Beiderbeck a few choice words about what he thought about him as he'd been carried past the fat man's cell--and continued crying like a wimp until he was pronounced dead fifteen minutes later.

The bad news had continued for Beiderbeck in the meantime: the FCC had determined he'd held several monopolies and ordered his empire shut down and his assets frozen. He'd yelled they had no constitutional right to do so, but they'd gone ahead in the end. His holdings were auctioned off to the highest bidders, as were his personal properties--including, most gallingly, Monk's former planned dream house that had held Beiderbeck's extensive pornography collection, now set to be destroyed. With no way for him to now pay them (and it severely rankled him that his money was even now being distributed to the needy as part of the judge's orders), his high-priced legal team was deserting him; several had made it clear they were going to sue him for back payments now. And as one final insult, he'd learned last week that his beloved dog Bentley, put up for adoption after his arrest, had been put down by Animal Control after having gone on an unprovoked rampage at a day care center--shot thirty-nine times after having gone after the officers on the scene, he'd heard ruefully. Somehow, he'd sworn, they'd pay for that someday.

Meanwhile, the executions continued: Paul Harley, the infamous "Torso Killer," who'd been slated to go right after Stokes, but had held out longer due to an above average legal team, had instead been the next after Phillbey. He'd held it together at first, but had broken down crying as he was led into the death chamber. Former Mint employee Phil Bedard, convicted for shooting up a barber shop, had been shaking from head to toe when his time had come and almost collapsed in fear several times before he'd gone into the death chamber. Murderous fashion mogul Julian Hodge had taken a brighter approach to his death, proclaiming to all on death row when they'd come for him that he was glad to be dying, as he'd always wondering what the latest fashions in Hell were. He'd also taken the chance to spite the authorities; he'd mooned the guards in contempt when they opened the cell, and once inside the execution chamber had broken into a loud, bizarre operetta that had ended only when he'd been injected with the sodium thiopental. Former porn kingpin Dexter Gold, arguably Beiderbeck's best "friend" on death row, had gone next. Dex had also put up a fight and had to be dragged kicking and screaming out of his cell. Unfortunately, whoever had been left in charge of the execution this time had botched the chemical injection somehow, and as a result Dex had screamed in agony for close to forty-five minutes, necessitating a second injection of chemicals in the end to finish him off.

Max Barton, who'd actually managed to talk his way out of jail briefly before Monk had thrown him right back in, had been the most recent to go; his face wracked with crushing guilt, he'd begged the warden before the door to the death chamber had closed to tell his wife how sorry he was for everything. And now it was Beiderbeck's turn--made soberingly clear by how the prison staff was forcing him onto a one liquid meal a day regiment to get him down to the right weight for execution. But he would be far from the last to go; there was a good reason the guards joked that the cellblock should be renamed, "Monk's Row," for no sooner had the detective's older victims been put out of their misery than new ones landed on death row to replace them. Directly across from Beiderbeck, disgraced financial mogul Nicholas Hallett stood next in line for execution after the fat man. Once a titan in the investment banking business, Hallett, arrested by Monk for killing his partner to cover up his affair with the man's wife, was now a thoroughly broken man who'd stopped eating and had tried to hang himself twice. To Beiderbeck's left, his new "best friend," former shock jock Max Hudson, screamed at the guards as often as he could that Monk had framed him and that he demanded a retrial. To the fat man's right, fallen chess champion Patrick Kloster spent most of his time playing chess with himself, perhaps secretly plotting an escape. Across the hall to Hallett's left, environmental radical Winston Brenner--also originally to have died earlier if not for deft legal maneuvering by his lawyers--spent most of his time pacing around his cell. To his left, George Teeger (mercifully for his own sake no relation to the odious Ms. Teeger, or Beiderbeck would have choked the life out of him if given a chance), was still in shock that he'd been caught in the first place and spent most of his time staring listlessly at the wall. So did disgraced oil company executive Fred Faracy, jailed for killing several monks, although he was still in a fighting spirit and spent much time going over with his lawyers how best to get his convictions overturned.

And then there was the strange case of Paul Buchanan. Originally only given life for the murder of his stepmother, Buchanan had landed on death row a few weeks back for murdering his cellmate, disgraced magician Carl Torini. Or so the official report was. But Beiderbeck had heard the rumors of Torini's last days: that objects in the cell had magically transported themselves to other places, that a strange mist often formed inside for no logical reason, that Buchanan claimed that his father and stepmother's angry spirits had returned to haunt him, and that at least one guard had sworn he'd seen Torini levitating Buchanan at one point. And then there was the fact that Torini's body had inexplicably disappeared from the prison morgue before it could be released for burial. But Beiderbeck was sure there wasn't really anything magic about what was going on; after all, the entire prison medical staff had confirmed Torini dead once his body was found, and the disposal staff had shown their overt incompetence many times before since the fat man's incarceration. Regardless of what had actually happened, though, the exeperience had snapped Buchanan's sanity, and even now Beiderbeck could hear him once again rattling the bars of his new cell and crying out that Torini's ghost had visited him the night before--it was now so bad, in fact, that he'd heard Buchanan's lawyers were petitioning to have his death sentence vacated on the grounds that he was no longer competent for execution.

It was a low growl at how much Monk had ruined these people's lives that he wheeled about to face Howard Klein, pretty much the only one of his lawyers still willing to work for him out of blind loyalty and nothing else. "Did you get what I asked for?" he grumbled.

"Right here, Mr. Beiderbeck," Klein extended a newspaper through the bars. Beiderbeck looked around to make sure the guards weren't watching and unwrapped it to reveal two dozen donuts inside. He greedily wolfed them all down at once; the hell with the warden's stupid weight guidelines, he'd decided. "Any luck with the appeal?" he inquired between bites.

"I'm afraid it doesn't look good, Mr. Beiderbeck," Klein shook his head, "The state Supreme Court turned down the last appeal. That was pretty much our last hope."

"And you made no attempts to finesse him, Klein? The chief justice is a personal friend of mine; he took twenty-five thousand from me not four years ago!"

"Well unfortunately, that was then; now, he said in private he can't afford to have any conflict of interest with you, sir. I'm sorry Mr. Beiderbeck; it has been a pleasure to serve as your personal counsel, but I'm afraid you're probably a dead man."

"Wonderful," Beiderbeck snarled, "I should have taken care of Adrian Monk right after his wife died when he wouldn't have cared if he lived or died. We certainly wouldn't have that accursed TV show about him that I've sued for years for slander. And we certainly wouldn't have THIS!" he thrust the paper in Klein's face. FESTIVAL FOR FAMOUS DETECTIVE BEGINS TOMORROW blared the headline over a rare smiling picture of Monk. "Just read all this!" the fat man continued complaining, "The whole country thinks Monk is great hero! They actually worship this...this...this...walking, talking freak!"

He tore the newspaper to pieces in a rage. "Oh but it doesn't matter in the end," he said, lowering his voice drastically. He leaned close to his lawyer. "Just between you and I, Klein, I may die this week, but I'm taking Adrian Monk with me," he whispered, a dark smile crossing his lips, "I've taken measures to ensure he doesn't leave his precious little celebration alive."

Klein gulped nervously at what he was being told. "Are you sure you want to discuss this here, sir?" he had to ask.

"Well Klein, you're a spineless little nobody who owes everything to me, so you're certainly not going to squeal, right?" his employer glared at him.

"Of course not, Mr. Beiderbeck. But how're you going to get to Monk to kill him? If there's fans everywhere..."

Beiderbeck laughed loudly and waved Klein right against the bars. "That's the beauty of the whole scheme," he hissed, "You see, I've managed to penetrate Monk's inner circle. Someone he trusts with his life now works for me."

"Really?" Klein was intrigued, "Who is it, sir?"

"Well if I told you, Klein, my secret agent wouldn't be much of a secret, would they?" Beiderbeck retorted, "All you need to know is that Agent X--for lack of a better cover name--has a deal with me: successfully kill Monk by any means whatsoever, and they become my sole beneficiary in the will; there's still several million left in the offshore accounts that I can bequeath to them. Plus, I may add, an additional five hundred thousand dollars bounty for everyone else in Monk's inner circle they can eliminate by the end of the week too. And further..."

Suddenly an alarm sounded. Half the guards on the cellblock ran pell-mell for the door back to the main prison. "Attention all personnel, escape in progress on Cellblock D," the warden's voice could be heard over the intercom. "Damn," Beiderbeck growled, slapping the bars in frustration.

"Is there a problem, sir?" his lawyer asked.

"Only that someone overheard me talking on the phone with Agent X at lunch the other day," the fat man muttered, "But no matter; even if the spy ends up getting to Monk, he won't believe a word he hears, not from..."

He abruptly stopped and flashed an innocent glance as one of the remaining guards walked by his cell. "Well, speaking of Monk, sir, won't he get suspicious if he sees someone he trusts trying to kill him?" Klein had to ask.

"Not at all," Beiderbeck laughed again, "For you see, you dimwitted dunce, Agent X isn't working alone. There's still people out there who owe me favors, and since this will probably will be the last chance, might as well use them now."

He sighed contently. Oh yes, Klein, revenge will be sweet," he smiled again, breaking into a sharp laugh, "What I'd give to see Monk driving up to that festival now, knowing that instead he's heading straight to his doom."


	2. A Grand Reunion with Old Friends

"The air is just fine!"

"You have it way too cold!"

"It's not that it's too cold, it's that you have no respect for anything that doesn't fit the way your warped mind works!"

"Oh MY mind is warped!?"

"Yes, you heard me, Harold, you have the most warped mind in the country, perhaps the whole world!"

"I could say the same for you!"

"And I say it again for you!"

"Will the both of you please just shut up!" came the shout from the back seat of the 1988 Ford Probe. A very irked Troy Kroger leaned forward to glare at both men. "It's amazing my father could stand either of you, because after two and a half hours I'm already at wit's end!" he reprimanded them both.

"He started it, Troy," Adrian Monk pointed at Harold.

"No, you did!" Harold shouted at him.

"No, Harold, you did."

"No, you did!"

"No, you did!"

"Adrian, Harold, please, just come on," Dr. Neven Bell also leaned forward, looking exasperated himself, "Now I know the two of you don't like each other, but for all our sakes, I'm asking the two of you nicely to please put aside any ill will this week."

"Even though some of us weren't invited in the first place," Adrian glared at Harold next to him in the front seat.

"First off, smart guy, I most certainly was invited, by the producer of your big important show," Harold told him smarmily, "And secondly, since they'll be honoring Chuck along with you, I owe it to him to be here for him as his best friend."

"You most certainly were not," Adrian retorted.

"You're just a sore loser because you knew he liked me more," Harold snapped back, "And you're still upset about losing your dumb parking garage, so get over it."

"Speaking of getting over it, Harold, have you gotten over your, shall I say, wild side yet?" a big grin broke out on Adrian's face, coinciding with Harold glowering darkly at him. While the detective was admittedly still disappointed about the parking garage his wife was killed in being torn down-with Harold's firm support-he could at least rest easy knowing he'd gotten the last laugh on his nemesis. For, about two weeks after the terrible vote, Harold had suffered a major relapse of his hypnotic therapy while the city council was in the middle of live televised session debating income tax reform in the city. Viewers had then been treated to the spectacle of Harold taking off all his clothes and dancing what appeared to be the fandango atop the council table while singing a yodeling song. After that, as a topper, his OCD had returned in force, and Harold had decided, without a second thought, that the...milk producing apparatus, for lack of a better term...of the woman in the front center seat of the meeting hall were...well, misaligned, and had promptly set about trying to attain "realignment." It had been then that the station had yanked the plug on the broadcast, but wonderfully it was already too late for Harold; the very next day, the council had unanimously voted him off-Maria included, earning herself much redemption in the detective's eyes-and a week later the school board had followed suit, also unanimously expelling him from their ranks. Angry and sullen over his humiliation, and apparently needing someone to take it out on, Harold had been driving the detective crazy all the way up from San Francisco.

"Now gentlemen, there's no need to be hostile to each other," came the elderly voice from the driver's seat. The now Archbishop Bernard Fitzwater turned to the two of them. "I believe if the two of you look close enough, you'll find in the end you have more in common than you realize."

"Per-Perhaps," Adrian mumbled softly. He did think well of the archbishop, but he didn't have the heart to tell him that asking he and Harold to like each other was asking far too much. He was, though, grateful the former head of the St. George Monastery-the murders of whose monks he'd solved not long back-had agreed to drive him up for the big festival in his honor. Things had certainly gone well for Fitzwater since then; he'd been promoted to diocese archbishop six months ago upon the death of his predecessor, and was now also the host of a successful local bingo show-but judging by the fact he'd still held on to his old car, an increase in status hadn't changed him.

The detective glanced forward out the windshield and saw the latest sign featuring the image of the actor playing him on TV plastered on a roadside billboard. THREE MORE MILES TO MONKSTOCK I proclaimed the words underneath the picture; they'd been popping up along the side of the road since about twenty miles south of Redding on I-5. He'd been looking forward to the first big get-together for all the fans of his show; the producer had thought it would be a terrific way to celebrate the program, and the detective himself as well. After some wrangling, they'd found the perfect location for it as far as Adrian was concerned; at picturesque Breckman Lake in eastern Shasta County, about twenty miles due east of Redding to be precise. Many times as a child, Trudy had vacationed there as a child, he knew. She'd often told Adrian she wanted to take him there and show him what she'd liked about it, but unfortunately she'd died before she'd gotten that chance. Still, if what his assistant had often told him over the years had any basis in reality, Trudy WOULD in fact be with him in spirit. Nor would she be the only one; Adrian had gotten so many requests to attend at the special guest cabin he'd be staying at by scores of people he'd met over the years that he'd reluctantly had to call many of them and turn them down (how any of them would find any place to stay was beyond him, for going by what he'd heard, pretty much every motel room within a radius of twenty miles of Breckman Lake was completely sold out).

Of course, not everyone could make it in the end. The widowed Mrs. Kroger had turned down his offer, still finding it too hard to come to terms with her husband's sudden departure from the world, sending her son instead. Warren St. Clair, an apparent attempt on whose life had started Adrian's comeback from the depths of despair eight years ago, was too busy in the middle of his campaign for governor to take time off. The same stood for baseball star Scott Gregorio, who was in the middle of a ten game road trip through Atlanta and Pittsburgh during the week. And Detective Adam Kirk, who owed the detective much for being able to remain on the force after his biggest catch had tried to discredit him, was stuck in an undercover assignment for the duration of the festival. And then, of course, there had been Kevin. For the last few months of his life, Adrian's neighbor had been eagerly awaiting Monkstock-indeed, apart from his magic act, that had been pretty much all he'd talked about. While it had seemed annoying at the time, it made Adrian's eyes water now to know that Kevin-who'd initially volunteered to drive him to Breckman Lake-could never make it now (although he could take comfort knowing Kevin's killer had himself been killed in prison a few weeks ago, so some higher force must have believed in justice as well). And then just last week, his friend whale trainer Bonnie McCloskey, who'd also been looking forward to the festival, had finally succumbed to the syphilis that had long plagued her. Adrian had been on of the pallbearers, although he had left before burial could commence, not wanting to be around when the dirt started flying. But before she'd died, she'd shared with him research data she'd gotten from the esteemed Greenwood Whale Institute in Oregon that showed that Riptide the killer whale, whom she'd introduced him to on a case a few years back, had by now found another family to join to replace the one that had been slaughtered by poachers, and he appeared to be in the process of breeding again. Somehow, in the way Bonnie had worded the data, Adrian had felt she was trying to send him a message of some kind to do the same.

He took note of a familiar road sign ahead. "This, this is it, Raccoon Lane," he pointed out to Archbishop Fitzwater, remembering well from the map he'd been mailed that the guest cabin he'd be staying in was down the road. The archbishop made a left turn off the highway, and soon the Probe was on a narrow one lane road under the dense shade of numerous trees, many at or near their full autumn bloom. In about a half mile or so, the archbishop veered right onto a dirt path, at the end of which Adrian could already make out the outline of a very tall cabin amid the trees. And at the end of the driveway, a very familiar was already there waiting for him. Adrian broke into a big smile as the Probe slid to a stop right in front of the cabin. "Dwight, so you got here first?" he asked, climbing out of the car (very glad to no longer have to be right next to Harold).

"Actually, Adrian, Marsha and I have been here since Thursday," his father-in-law gave him a big hug, "So good to see you again. Any problems coming up?"

"Any problems!? Just name them and we had them!" Troy snorted sarcastically, grabbing his belongings out of the back seat in a huff, "Which room's mine!? I want to check in now; anything to get away from the two of them!"

He gestured at Adrian and Harold (Adrian was a bit disappointed; he and Troy had made seemingly good progress when they'd been buried alive together). "Uh, well, we haven't actually divided the rooms up yet," Dwight admitted, "But if you want to go scope it out, go right ahead."

"I'm going with him," Harold declared, taking his own belongings out of the trunk.

"Oh no you're not!" Troy warned him, hustling swiftly towards the cabin.

"Your father would have wanted us to bunk together, so I need to know which room we're sleeping together in," Harold countered, barrelling after him.

"Like hell we're sleeping together!" the teenager shouted defiantly at him. The two of them brushed past the tall, thin figure of Dwight's co-producer of the series as he was exiting the cabin. "Oh, Monk, good, you made it," Tim Kight all but bounced down the stairs towards him, "Pretty much on time too. Who else have you brought with you here?"

"Allow me to introduce Dr. Neven Bell, the current greatest psychiatrist in San Francisco," Adrian gestured at him, "And Father...actually, now Archbishop Fitzwater, we worked together on a case not long ago. Dr. Bell, Archbishop, meet Tim Kight and Dwight Ellison, they make sure the show runs perfectly."

"Bernard K. Fitzwater," the archbishop dug his cane out of the front seat for support and shook both men's hands jovially, "It is a delight to be here. And what an enjoyable setting indeed; as a child back in Wisconsin, I myself summered at a lake near the Green Bay area much like this many a year, so this week should bring back some good memories."

"And Adrian told me you and Trudy came up here to this lake too," Dr. Bell told Dwight, shaking his hand as well, "Don't tell me this is the cabin itself?"

"No, actually, this is Tim's cabin now," Dwight admitted, "Ours was way over on the other side of the lake, right about...there," he pointed to the far shore, "I'm sure we can stop over there at some point to take a look. But I don't think you'll find this one that bad."

"Not bad at all," Kight agreed, removing his glasses to clean them, "Actually, Roger Chalmers used to own this one before Mr. Monk here caught him for murdering Andy Faulk, and I bought it when the state auctioned off his personal holdings after he got slapped with his life sentence. I took out the most flamboyant aspects of his decor, but we've still got a lot of modern amenities; we've got a bowling alley in the basement, a pinball machine, lots of stuff."

"As, as long as there's a proper bathroom, that'll be fine by me," Adrian set a large trunk on the ground and opened it up. He wasn't surprised that Kight had toned down Chalmers's extravagance at the cabin; Kight, like Archbishop Fitzwater, had maintained a cool head despite his meteoric rise at the Walt Disney Company from nowhere desk staffer to a strong member of the board of directors thanks to the strength of Adrian's show, which he'd seen through from the beginning. "What's that for?" the producer asked now as the detective began pulling what looked like yard ornaments from the trunk.

"Well I've got to make sure the snakes stay away from the cabin all week," Adrian pressed one into the ground, "The hardware store guarantees this will make them immediately leave the area when they smell them. Here," he handed a set to Dr. Bell, "You go clockwise around the cabin, I'll go counterclockwise."

Dr. Bell looked down at the snake repellers. "I don't think you really should worry about snakes too much, Adrian," he said, handing them back, "But if you insist, I'll let you try it on your own, and when you see after the week's half over there's nothing to fear..."

There came a honking from the road behind them. "Ah, that, that should be Natalie," Adrian said, walking several paces towards the lake and pushing another snake repeller into the dirt, "She'd spent the night in Redding so the ride wouldn't be as long; surprised actually she wasn't the first one here."

And indeed it was in fact the "Teegermobile" that came into sight from behind the trees. It slowed to a stop alongside Archbishop Fitzwater's car and tried to back up behind it...only to speed up as if the gas pedal had been hit instead of the brake by accident and backed hard into a spruce with a loud crash. The driver's side door flew open. "Oh God, oh God, oh God!" Julie was in near complete hysterics at the sight of the damage to the rear bumper, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...!"

"It's OK, really, it's OK," her mother stepped out and put a comforting arm around her, although Adrian could see an uncomfortable expression on her face at the damage, "That's, uh, that's...that's not so bad. I did that when I first tried parallel parking too, so don't be upset." She noticed her employer nearby. "So you beat us here, Mr. Monk," she conceded.

"I, I guess so," Adrian stuck another snake repeller into the ground near her feet, "Apart from this, I guess your ride up from Redding was fine?"

"Absolutely fine," the back door swung open, and the familiar figure of Bobby Davenport stepped forward, "Nothing but smooth sailing all the way up," he told the detective, stretching.

"See Dad, and you were so worried we'd be stuck in traffic for hours coming to this place," Jonathan crawled out after him. "Well, this is nice," he exclaimed, looking around the cabin and the surrounding property, "I could almost live up here. How about you, Mother?"

Peggy was the last Davenport to exit. Adrian could tell immediately from her expression she wasn't as keen as her son about a week in the wilderness. "Is this the best you could rent out!?" she almost retorted to the detective, staring disapprovingly at the cabin despite its expansive two story height, "I've seen luxury doghouses that are more impressive."

"Mother!" Natalie glowered at her. Adrian heard her whisper sharply in Peggy's ear after leaning towards her, "You promised you wouldn't complain about anything since this is Mr. Monk's week in the sun!"

"Well if I knew he'd rent a place like this, I'd've searched online for a better deal!" Peggy hissed back. With a growl of frustration, Natalie threw open the dented trunk and began dumping expensive suitcases on the ground. Adrian then noticed one final, familiar person in the car. "Oh, so you came along too, Wendy?" he inquired.

"Hey, how could I say no to the man who kept me out of prison?" Wendy Whitehurst eagerly bounded out of the car. The Olympic hopeful had spent two months with the Teegers after her mother had been sent to prison for murdering her coach and conspiring to take out her competitors in the gymnastics events when the Olympics had rolled into San Francisco the previous year (Adrian, though, had argued for leniency in court, not wanting to have completely split up the Whitehursts for good, and his request had essentially been granted, as Mrs. Whitehurst had gotten fifty years for her crimes in the end-less than half of what the prosecution had argued for-and with the possiblity of parole in fifteen years). She'd then gone off to live with an aunt in Santa Barbara, and from what Julie had hinted at from their many online conversations since then, was happier than she'd been in years now that she was no longer under her mother's tyrannical thumb.

"She begged and pleaded to take her along with us," Julie explained to the detective, putting an arm around her friend, "We pretty much had no choice; not that I mind, of course..."

"I, I can imagine," Adrian pushed another snake repeller into the ground equidistant from the last one, "So, Wendy, how are things up in Santa Barbara these days?"

"Pretty good indeed," Wendy said with a smile, "I've got some real friends now, and the positive mail from people saying I was a real champion giving Zlata the gold medal keep pouring in, so I really have no regrets about it now," (Adrian was quite glad she felt that way; he'd also thought Wendy giving the Kosovoan gymnast Zlata Tadic her gymnastic gold after the latter finished out of the medals in the finals was noble, and most sportscasters around the country seemed to agree. In contrast, Wendy's bitter rival Shannon Walker, who'd quit in disgust before the finals rather than compete alongside a reinstated Wendy, almost getting the American team disqualified because of it, had been almost universally slammed for such a selfish gesture, with many analysts calling it poor sportsmanship rivaling anything they'd seen in years, and some even calling for her to be hit with the same lifetime ban Wendy had almost received). "But also," the redhead continued, breaking into laughter for some reason, "I just have to tell you, Mr. Monk; I came across this psychic guy last month; you should really meet him some day. He's so clearly a fake, but you can't help love him anyway. He helped solve a break-in down the street, and the way he did it had me laughing harder than I have in years."

"Sounds, sounds like an interesting person," Adrian bent down and started clipping individual blades of grass with his clippers to even them out, "Exactly the time of person I WOULDN'T want to meet, though."

"Oh come on, you two would look great together," Wendy goaded him, "Trust me on that. Someday, when he probably has his own series like you, you'll have...who's that coming now?"

Adrian had heard it too: a loud, sharping blaring repeating over and over again. He looked up to see a large U-Haul truck coming up the dirt road, the horn blaring over and over again. Rolling his eyes, Adrian walked over to the passenger door as it jerked to a stop and rapped hard on it. "Yes, Ambrose, the horn DOES work," he shouted up.

"Isn't this great, Adrian!?" his brother stuck his head out the window, looking like he'd just won the lottery, "Dad took us up here in style. And he brought our other brother too, do you believe it!?"

"Hey Adrian!" Ambrose squirmed aside as the smiling face of Jack Monk, Jr. appeared in the window, looking even happier. Adrian had heard that he was going to be paroled in time for the festival, although he wasn't quite certain deep down whether or not he really wanted Jack Jr. at the festival. "You look great, buddy!" his half brother shouted, opening the door to the cab and hopping down. "So, how many other bad guys did you bring in since our paths last crossed!?"

He gave Adrian's hand an overly vigorous pumping. "Uh, well, Jack, I'd, uh..." Adrian gestured at Natalie for a wipe, "Once you, uh, bring the energy level down a couple of notches, I can tell you I've taken about six or seven people off the street since you went back to prison. Did Dad buy this truck?"

"No, rented it off a company at the airport," Jack Monk, Sr. strode around the front of the truck. He was wearing a sweatshirt with the show's logo on it underneath his jacket. "So good to see you again, Adrian," he gave his son a proud hug, "Hey, I'm so sorry about what happened to the Doc; he was a nice guy when we bunked together in Philly."

"Yes, we, we all miss Dr. Kroger too," Adrian admitted, "But I found a new replacement that's just as good, really; he's right over there, Dr. Neven Bell's the name," he looked around for his new psychiatrist, but couldn't see him. "Well, he must have gone inside already."

"Hold on, hold on," Natalie was eagerly digging out her camera, "All of you get together, I've got to get your picture. The entire Monk family, together at last."

"Yeah, isn't it just wonderful?" Ambrose said cheerfully, stepping next to Jack Jr. behind his father and brother, "This is basically what I've waited for since I was ten: the whole family, together again, even if just for a week."

"I'm sure you have, Ambrose," she smiled, raising the camera, "On three..."

"Hold it," Adrian raised his hand, "Uh, Jack," he turned to his half brother, "I, I think you're actually shorter, you should probably be up front here; it should be short in front, tall..."

"On three," Natalie wasn't going to give him a chance to wreck the historic moment, "One, two, three."

Adrian reluctantly forced a smile as she took the picture. It wasn't going to be what he'd wanted, but he supposed it would suffice for the moment. Ambrose wandered around the truck. "This is nice," he proclaimed, staring at the cabin in approval, "Oh yeah, I'm going to really like this place. So, I'll just get inside now while the going's good."

"Don't get too comfortable, Ambrose, I've got a surprise for you once you get the first couple of stuff away," his father told the instruction manual writer as he sauntered quickly towards the house. The former trucker trudged to the back of the U-Haul and opened the rear door. "Here's the stuff of yours you told Ambrose to hold on to for you, Adrian," he told him, dropping about ten suitcases at the detective's feet.

"Thank you, thank you very much," Adrian commended him, opening them and sighing in relief to see his emergency Summit Creek supply was intact.

"Ah, so you're the elusive Jack Monk, Sr.?" Kight approached with Dwight on his heels, "I'm Tim Kight; we've talked a couple of times on the phone about your show novels."

"Ah yeah, good to meet you at last, Mr. Kight," Jack shook his hand, "I'm so glad for your unwavering support for everything. I hope to get the next one I told you about as far done as possible while I'm here. And this is your much-talked of partner with the Adrian Monk juggernaut, right?"

"Yes, this is Dwight Ellison, Dad; he was-is-Trudy's father," Adrian told him. Jack's expression grew a bit more solemn. "Very nice to meet you," he said, shaking Dwight's hand firmly, "From what Adrian keeps telling me about your girl, she must have been one hell of a great woman."

"Yes, Trudy was the very best my wife and I could ever have hoped for, Mr. Monk," Dwight said, his eyes misting over, "I wish you could have met her in person."

"Yeah, I do myself these days too," Jack looked dismal at never having this prospect himself. "Well," he quickly recovered and started pulling more suitcases out of the back of the truck, "Might as well get unpacked myself; after all, I've still got that next novel to finish."

"Oh, I've been meaning to ask," Natalie spoke up, picking up some of Adrian's suitcases from the ground, "I have wondered; about that Joe the fireman you've created for my love interest in your books...?"

"I've had a feeling you'd ask about that, Mrs. Teeger," Jack nodded, "Actually, I've based him on a guy I knew in Texas that seemed to me like someone that would be right up your alley. Is something wrong with that?"

"Well no, but it's just...it was a little surprising the first time I saw you pairing me off with someone I never heard of before," Natalie admitted, handing Adrian another suitcase and trudging towards the cabin, where everyone else seemed to have gone inside already. "You've got all of yours?" she asked Jack Jr., lifting a large trunk of his own by a nearby stump.

"Everything's under control," the con man flashed her a big smile, adjusting the cap he was wearing with the show's logo embroidered on it after wiping sweat away from his brow. "Yeah, this'll be just great up here," he proclaimed grandly, staring around at the bright autumn surroundings, "A week far from civilization, all for my brother."

"So while we're still just arriving," frowning, Jack Sr. advanced towards his youngest son, "let me lay out the rules for you: no stealing from anyone, no con games here or at any festival activities, no gambling, no wild parties, and you better not have smuggled any pot with you out of prison, because I'm not going to stand for it with kids here."

"All right, all right, keep your shirt on!" Jack Jr. protested, upset, "God, you've nagged all the way up here like you don't trust me or something!"

"Have you ever given me reason to trust you!?" his father glared at him, then trudged towards the cabin himself with several more suitcases. Adrian followed suit with those of his own that Natalie hadn't taken for him. The porch was enclosed with screen and had a small bookcase with numerous titles. His mother-in-law was in a rocking chair, reading one of them now. "Oh Adrian, good to have you here," she greeted him warmly, giving him a hug.

"It's, it's good to be here, Mom," Adrian smiled himself, "I, uh, hope there's enough room for everything I've brought; most of my stuff's still on the way."

"Well, we'll find room somewhere, Mr. Monk," said the black-haired woman next to Marsha with a large, clearly pregnant stomach. "So you're Elizabeth Kight, then," Adrian had never met his producer's wife before, "Tim always speaks highly of you. How much longer before the new one comes?"

"About another month or so," Elizabeth rubbed her chest warmly, "We've settled on Kaylee as the name for her. Although the timing could have been a little better for it; the doctors' current timetable has her coming out around the exact anniversary that Joshua..."

She lowered her head. Adrian more than understood; the Kights' son had been killed in a hit and run several years ago, and like Trudy's case, the killer was still at large with little or no evidence to follow. The detective had promised his benefactors he'd do what he could to work on it in his spare time, but so far even he could make no headway with what little there was. "He always had an affinity for nature," the woman continued somberly, "He wanted to be a zookeeper some day. This would have been a thrill for him to be up here too."

"I'm sure it would have," Marsha tapped her sympathetically on her hand, "But as I found when I turned to grief counseling after I lost Trudy, you can really only move forward no matter how glum things might seem, and just remember the times you did have. The killer can never take those away from you, just like this Judge person can't take away the thirty-four years my own daughter had."

"Yes," Adrian agreed, "I'm starting to see it that way myself now. Largely because Natalie drove it relentlessly into my head with her excessive cheerfulness that should really be made a federal offense, but it has helped in the end, basically."

He became aware of shouting inside the cabin. Hefting his essential belongings again, he stepped inside and took a good look around at his lodgings. The cabin had an open center, featuring several large sofas and chairs and a wide-screen TV in the corner. The kitchen and downstairs bathroom branched off from the center, and three bedrooms each lined the sides. Upstairs, the detective could make out a long line of small bedrooms-hopefully all ten by ten, he hoped-around the circumference of the building. And bedrooms seem to be the matter at hand for the argument in the middle of the room. "...specifically requested the biggest bedroom you had!" Mrs. Davenport was protesting to Kight.

"Well I'm sorry, but my partner and his wife have been staying in the largest one since they showed up here," Kight said calmly, "If it's really that important to you..."

"Actually, no, it isn't that important," Jonathan told him. Behind him, his sister nodded firmly, eager to get the confrontation diffused.

"Well to me it is," Peggy wasn't bending, "I was told this was the best cabin on the lake, and..."

"Marsha and I would be willing to relocate if it would make you feel any better," Dwight offered reluctantly, "It really doesn't matter to us, Mrs. Davenport."

"Thank you, that probably will help," Bobby commended him, shooting his wife a pleading look not to make any more conflicts so early on.

"Meanwhile, while we're getting these laid out, I'm with Troy," Harold spoke up from upstairs.

"You come in here and you're a dead man!" Troy shouted from what he'd chosen as his room.

"It was your father's dying request, and I have to honor it!" Harold shouted back.

"Liar, he didn't even know this was going to come together like this when he died!"

"Hey, I'll sleep with you," Jack Jr. called up to Harold.

"And you are...?"

"Jack Monk Jr., I'm Adrian's brother.

"Not even when Hell freezes over!" Harold snapped at him and ducked out of sight. "Wonder what his problem is?" Jack Jr. shrugged, "Oh well, guess I'll bunk down with you then, Adrian."

He put an arm around the detective. "Uh, well, Jack, here's, here's the thing, I was kind of hoping to get a room of my own," Adrian told him slowly.

"That may not be possible, Mr. Monk," Kight shook his head, "With everyone else who signed up to stay here, there probably won't be enough room, so you'll have to bunk with someone."

"Oh. Um...Ambrose, I guess it'll be you and me, then," Adrian gestured at his full brother, "Since we each have our own needs, we'd probably cancel each other out."

"Fine by me, Adrian," Ambrose apparently had no qualms with this arrangement, "Better go unload the rest of my stuff then, Dad."

"Actually, come on along with me, Ambrose, and I'll get you that special present I promised," Jack Sr. led him towards the door, "Come on now, we're just outside the cabin, nothing to be afraid of."

Ambrose fidgeted, but nonetheless followed his father out. Adrian did as well, intrigued by what the present could be, but his attention was diverted by another familiar car pulling up right in front of the house. "Captain, you made it," he greeted his superior as he got out.

"Hey there, Monk," Captain Leland Stottlemeyer shook his hand, "Say, this is one pretty nice place they picked for us indeed."

He nodded in satisfaction at the cabin. "Better, better pick your room quick; it's pretty much a free-for-all in there now," Adrian cautioned him.

"Sounds good," Stottlemeyer nodded again, "Has Mr. Kight said what we'll be doing tonight, or does the fun stuff only begin tomorrow?"

"He hasn't really said yet, Captain," Adrian told him, "But I think we might do the first set of interviews."

"Lovely," Stottlemeyer groaned, "After her last picture went straight to the top of the box office, she's gone right back to where she was before..."

"Come on, Dad, you promised not to be hard on Mom at all," demanded his younger son from the middle of the front seat. He and his older brother climbed out themselves, surprising Adrian at how much they had grown since he'd last seen them. It was a bit hard to believe they had been mere grade schoolers when he'd first met them, and now Jared was already in college and Max a junior in high school.

"Yes, yes, you're right, I did promise," Stottlemeyer admitted to his children, "And I will keep my word, and I won't say anything bad about her at all." He leaned close to Adrian and whispered softly, "As long as she doesn't try too hard to provoke me."

"If she does, please keep control, Captain," Adrian begged him, "You do still remember what happened when you were convinced Karen had killed Arthur Schmidt?"

"Every day, Monk, every day," Stottlemeyer sighed softly. Another man got out of the back seat as the captain's children took their belongings and trudged towards the cabin. "Well Adrian, how do you like it up here?" Sergeant Joe Christie asked him warmly.

"It, it seems pretty nice, Joe; maybe I'll actually end up liking it by the time we go home," Adrian told him.

"Actually, Monk, glad you're here, because Joe's got a surprise for you that you're going to like," Stottlemeyer told him with a smile.

"Captain, you know I don't like surprises," the detective sighed.

"Oh, but I know you will like this one," Stottlemeyer said, "Take a look at who Joe brought with him."

Adrian stared at the back seat...and had to blink. And then blink twice more just to make sure. It look so much like...could it possibly by some chance from heaven be...?

"_Tommy_," he breathed in rapt excitement. For so long, he'd hoped to see the baby he'd raised for a little while again, and now, his wish had come true; it was unmistakably Tommy in the back of the car-six years older, but definitely the same. "Tommy," he proclaimed again, "Natalie, Julie, come on out and see who's here!" he shouted excitedly back to the cabin. "Oh, Tommy," he flashed a grin at the boy, "I hope you remember me, I'm Adrian...Monk, I took care of you for a little while. Remember the crash helmet, the 9-1-1 call I made when...?"

"What's going on?" Natalie came huffing out of the cabin with her daughter in tow. "Oh my God!" she recognized Tommy as well, "Tommy, how are you!?" she greeted him warmly, "Do you remember us?"

But Tommy merely frowned deeply. "Who are all you people!?" he asked sharply.

"We, we were once good friends, sort of, kind of," Adrian explained, "I can tell you all about it once..."

"No, I just want to get this week over with," the boy cut him off abruptly, "Which room is mine!?"

"Whichever one you want," Julie helped him out of the car, "Can I carry your stuff there?"

"No!" he pulled it close and marched off towards the house. Adrian's heart sank. "He didn't remember me," he mumbled softly.

"Well Mr. Monk, he was about two at the time," Natalie comforted him, "You can't expect him to remember things from that age." Concerned, she turned to Christie. "Is he doing all right?"

"Not lately, I'm afraid," the sergeant shook his head, "You see, the family he got placed with was killed in a car crash about two months ago. I always wanted a child, so I put my name in for adoption, and I ended up with him. The problem is, Tommy was really close to his new family, so he's seen me as an interloper trying to replace them. I've told myself it'll take some time, but it's starting to take longer to win him over than I'd expected."

"Well, he'll come around in the end, I hope," Adrian tried to put a positive spin on it, hoping he was right, "Why didn't you tell me earlier you'd adopted him? I would have come over then."

"He wanted to surprise you, Monk," Stottlemeyer told him, "Plus, I think he was thinking Tommy would have accepted him by then."

There came a sudden excited cry behind Jack Sr.'s truck. Moments later, Ambrose wobbled into sight on a bicycle much like the one Adrian's father had given him after they'd buried their wounds when they'd first reconnected. "Focus on a center of gravity, Ambrose," Jack jogged behind him, keeping one hand extended to keep Ambrose upright, "Now turn to the left, nice and easy. That's it, you've got it! Now pick up the speed a little, I'm right here. Yeah, you're flying like the wind now!"

"Smile!" Natalie raised her camera again and took a picture of Ambrose at full steam. The instruction manual writer was in pure glee as he started circling the cabin. "I'm king of the world!" he couldn't help shouting.

"Yes, that you are, Ambrose!" Jack shouted encouragingly, now having to run to keep up with him. "Yep, you can definitely tell those two were meant to be here together," Stottlemeyer said, smiling himself, "At least they won't have to...well, look who's coming now."

A brand new-looking blue Cobalt with a New Jersey license plate inscribed FLEM18 was pulling up the road now. It swerved to the right to go for one of the few remaining parking spaces...but abruptly hit a large pothole and veered to the right towards the lake, prompting the driver to swing too far to the left to compensate, and as a result smacked side-on into the Teegermobile. "Oh my God!" Natalie was undeniably aghast this time as she sprinted over and morbidly took in the direct hit her car had taken to the passenger side, causing notable damage, "Oh, my car!"

"It's OK, Natalie," Stottlemeyer patted her on the shoulder, a wry smile crossing his lips, as if he'd been waiting for this moment for some time, "I know exactly how you feel."

"Me too," Julie looked relieved that she wasn't the only one who'd messed up parking. She walked up to the car and tapped on the driver's side window. "You're not dead," she called inside.

The window slowly rolled down. "Are you sure!?" was Benjy's meek reply. He looked pale and was staring straight ahead without moving at all.

"Hey, I smashed into a telephone pole myself right after I got my first license," the short-haired blond in the passenger seat tried to reassure him, "No big deal."

"Maybe not for you, Gail, but tell that to everyone in town who lost their power for four hours because of, including me at Regina Salmanti's party," snorted the longer-haired blond next to her. She squeezed past Benjy out of the car. "Adrian."

"So glad you could make it, Sharona, how was...?"

Without warning, she suddenly slapped him hard across the face. "What was that for!?" he protested.

"That was for getting me all worked up that you were dead, Adrian!" she shouted at him. Before he could recover, she delivered a second slap. "And that was for making me waste two grand on an airline ticket and a hotel room I didn't need to use!"

"You, you don't understand, I really had no choice but to pretend I was dead," Adrian tried to explain, "Dale the Whale and the sheriff were right up my back; if I didn't do something to throw them off track, they'd've caught me in the end, and Dale would be out on the streets-well, not exactly _on_ the streets, but..."

"I can't replace that money so easily, Adrian!" she continued ranting at him, "Is it your purpose in life to suck me completely dry!? The next time you die, I better know for sure it's for real!"

"Don't worry we'll let you know if it happens again. I'm so glad you made it as well," Natalie stepped forward and embraced her predecessor. Adrian never could understand why so many people seemed to always assume Sharona and Natalie would be bitterly jealous of each other. While there had been some friction early on after they'd met-largely of Sharona's entire doing-the two of them had since become very close-even closer in fact since the previous time they'd been together when Sharona's medical know-how had likely saved Julie's life after she'd been shot in Gettysburg. "And I see someone's got a new car," Natalie commended Benjy as he got out himself, the color slowly coming back into his face.

"My treat for his high school graduation," Sharona rubbed her son's hair proudly, "Of course it took a lot of reserve cash I preferred not to spend," she shot her former employer another harsh look, "But since he deserved it, it was worth it."

"So, Benjy, what college did you say you were going to again?" Stottlemeyer asked him, "Sally something, was it?"

"DeSales, just outside of Allentown," the very lovely Becky Turcotte got out of the back seat and stood by her boyfriend. She definitely looked much better than when Adrian had first met her during the Christmas in Gettysburg, when she'd been in terrible shape after having been kidnapped and starved, "We both applied for TV and Film, and we're enjoying it so far."

"Which reminds me, Mr. Monk," Benjy told him, "I do appreciate what you sent me about the Scali family you worked with, but I kind of want to take a break from new TV shows now."

"We're breaking into feature films next," Becky proclained grandly, "We've started conceptual work on what we want our first one to be about."

"And they're very good artwork, believe me," came her father's voice. Adrian thought John Turcotte also looked much better since last they'd met-given he'd been put through hell by the Harvey brothers, and since he'd stated he was retiring from the CIA after that mission, it was basically to be expected. "Hello Monk," he greeted the detective cordially, "When Becky told me she was going on this, I had to come along too; I missed too much with her when I was in the Company, and I'm not going to miss this."

"Good, good for you," Adrian commended him, "It's better when...oh look out."

Out of control now, Ambrose skidded towards the "Flemingmobile" and crashed into the rear bumper, sending himself flying onto the rear windshield. "I'm OK," he announced quickly, "Oh Sharona, you're here."

"Yes, and very good for you, clearly," she said, quickly examining him for any sign of injury, but satisfied in the end that he was all right. "Oh, and you're here too," she said more coolly to Jack when he came running up, "So who's running your motel for you?"

"I hired an assistant earlier in the year; he's handling everything for me, Mrs. Fleming. What, you think I'd blow my son's tribute off?" Jack told her defensively. Adrian wasn't surprised at their reactions; he knew Sharona still held too much against his father for leaving his family for forty years to ever truly forgive him, although at least the two of them could usually manage a reasonable detente. "You OK, Ambrose?" he asked his oldest son, helping him down to the ground again.

"I'm fine, Dad. Hey, Jack Jr.'s here too," he told the nurse excitedly, "You're going to love to meet him."

"Oh yeah, the pot-smoking con artist," she seemed less than enamored of this prospect. She shot another harsh glance in Jack, Sr.'s direction. "And I wonder why he ended up that way?"

"So it's entirely my fault the lout turned out so bad!?" the former trucker was definitely miffed, "I just love your logic, Mrs. Fleming."

"Well you know how the expression goes, like father..."

"OK, well, maybe we'd better get you guys inside so we can get the luggage all unpacked," Stottlemeyer quickly cut in, opening the Flemings' trunk and taking their belongings out. He leaned in the front passenger door. "Everything okay in there, Gail."

"Oh, yeah, of course," Gail Fleming very quickly hopped out, but Adrian could see the misery on her face over something (the Flemings' mother had also been invited to the festival, he knew, but Cheryl had been battling cancer for some time now and couldn't skip her chemotherapy; she had urged her daughters to go on without her, though, when they'd initially insisted on staying with her). She walked very briskly towards the cabin without turning around. "Something's bothering her," he inquired to his former assistant.

"Oh, Gail's been upset that her latest relationship fell through, and she kvetched all the way up from San Francisco about how she'll never find the perfect man," Sharona grumbled, clearly tired of her sister's problems for the moment, "I told it to just forget about him and move on, but she won't let go of...oh no, don't tell me that's...?"

But it was. Lieutenant Randall Disher's car was coming up the drive now. With no available parking by the cabin, the lieutenant instead tried to squeeze into the narrow space between Natalie's car and Archbishop Fitzwater's car. A terrible scraping sound rose up as he scraped their sides. "Stop, stop, stop!" Stottlemeyer waved his hands wildly at his adjutant, "You can't fit in there!"

Disher stopped the car and leaned out the window. "What?" he called loudly.

"Look what you've done!" Natalie was almost on the verge of tears at how badly her car had been abused in the last ten minutes. The lieutenant looked it over. "Oh," he said softly, "Well, a little paint should cover it up pretty nicely."

"A little paint!?" Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes. The lieutenant tried to back up, but he had wedged himself in. Shrugging, he climbed out the window. "These are for you," he handed Sharona a handful of flowers that Adrian surmised he'd simply pulled out of the ground back in San Francisco before driving up, "It's a disengagement present. I'm thankful for your affections over the years, but Cathy and I have come to a big decision we'll announce when we're on stage later on."

"I'll remember these always," she mumbled, handing them to her son to get rid of when the lieutenant momentarily looked away, "Surprised then she isn't with you now."

"Oh, her plane was late; she's grounded in Sioux Falls right now waiting for some big thunderstorms to blow over," Disher explained, "She'll rent a car and come on up when she gets in to San Francisco; she MapQuested the directions and won't...you need a hand there?"

Dr. Bell had come back outside and was straining tremendously to lift a very large steamer trunk out of the back of Archibishop Fitzwater's car. "Yeah, let us help you with that," Turcotte offered, joining Disher in trying to pull the trunk out. Their efforts were unsuccessful, though, and eventually they dropped the trunk to the ground, where it broke open, revealing it had contained a huge concrete chunk with the faded number B-5 still visible on it. "Adrian..." the psychiatrist glanced at the detective, his eyes silently demanding an explanation.

"The council said I could take it as a compromise," Adrian protested, stacking the broken pieces of suitcase in a pile, "If I can't have the garage still standing, this is the next best thing."

"And what did I say about letting go?" Dr. Bell pressed him.

"I combined that with what Dr. Kroger said a couple years back that I'm best taking things in short steps; I've let go of the garage to focus my attention solely on the last thing Trudy saw before she was blown up," Adrian answered firmly, "Maybe in a couple of years, say, ten or fifteen minimum, I can let go of this too."

Before Dr. Bell could say anything else, there came the loud blare of more truck horns. "Ah, that'll be the rest of my stuff," Adrian said quickly, eager to change the subject.

"I should say," Stottlemeyer's eyes were open in shock. A whole convoy of trucks, stretching back as far as the eye can see, was pulling up to the cabin. Everyone inside rushed out to see what was going on. Adrian noticed their eyes all go wide. "Well, we've got a lot of stuff to unload; everyone might as well pitch in," he called, walking up to the first truck, "We can all do it together and have what passes for fun, just like friends and families seem to do together a lot, I think."


	3. Mr Monk Takes a Hayride

"Come on Mr. Monk, you'll like it," Max called to the detective from across the green between the cabin and the lake.

"Well, perhaps, just, just let me finish up this," Adrian called back. He gently picked up a fallen brown oak leaf and carried it to a nearby pile of brown leaves and dropped it on top. "Good, very good," he nodded. Ever since the moving trucks had finally disgorged all his items and left, the detective had been bent on making the area around the cabin as livable as possible, and that included separating the fallen autumn leaves by color. Already the piles of red, orange, yellow, brown, and a few purple leaves were quite high, and he still had the perimeter of the property to take care of. Satisfied for the moment, he laid his claw against the side of the cabin's enclosed porch. "Natalie," he called up to the second floor patio, where his assistant was helping to lay out the utensils for dinner, "Keep on eye on the yard and let me know where the leaves fall so I can get them later."

There was no response. Either Natalie hadn't heard him or was blocking him out yet again. Shrugging, he hustled over to the green, where most of the rest of his cabinmates had been in the middle of a football scrimmage for some time now. "So you're joining us now, Monk?" Stottlemeyer asked, standing up from the quarterback position.

"I, uh, guess so, Captain. Here," Adrian handed him a set of wipes, "You've got to make sure it's safe before I join in, though."

"Monk, none of us is sick, I've told you that about five times over the last week," the captain rolled his eyes, "Anyway, uh, you can team off against...um...Jared's been open a lot lately; OK if Monk matches up with you, son?"

"Absolutely," Jared broke into a smile, making Adrian wonder if the boy's day had just been made, figuring he had a sure touchdown coming his way.

"OK, Monk, in the huddle here," Turcotte, apparently the opposing team's captain, waved him in close. Adrian, though, had no intention of getting into a close position with so many other people, and as such stood outside the huddle and listened in as best he could as the former CIA agent detailed his plans: "...he's getting confident he can hit us on the outside, so let's get out defense there the best, don't let him take the long shot; Doctor, Max, Monk, that's you guys; keep your eyes open on your targets and the ball. All right, on three, HIKE!!"

They lined up at what was apparently the line of scrimmage. With no intension of actually touching the ground with his bare hands, Adrian merely squatted until Stottlemeyer snapped the ball. He quickly located Jared out of the corner of his eye and rushed up alongside him. Sure enough, Stottlemeyer heaved the ball in his son's direction. Adrian reached up for it--but hesitated for a moment realizing what he was about to do: even with the captain's guarantee, there was always the chance something foreign was on the ball. That moment was enough for Jared to run right into him and send the two of them toppling to the ground, his forward momentum making them slide forward a few yards. "What do you think you're doing!?" the boy bellowed at him, ticked.

"Just, uh, just sort of had something else on...OH NO!!!" there was no way Adrian could ignore the grass stains on his sleeves and inseam. Before anyone could say anything else, he rushed for the cabin, charged inside, raced across the ground floor and up the stairs and around the second floor to what he and Ambrose had agreed would be their room. Desperately flinging open the trunk of spare suits that was closest, he dug out a set, pulled the shrink wrap off it, and raced towards the bathroom on the far end of the top floor, almost knocking Natalie down as she came in from the patio with a set of paper plates in hand. "Whoa, whoa, slow down, Mr. Monk, what's going on!?" she inquired.

"Dire emergency!" he called back before he slammed the bathroom door shut, "Better call HazMat!"

Locking the door and fumbling for the light switch, he stumbled out of the ruined suit and into the fresh one. He wrapped it up thoroughly in the shrink wrap and started to drop it in the garbage can--before realizing it was still a hazard there. Plus, he had to make sure it couldn't happen again. He unlocked the door and raced back to his room, where he opened his trunk of radiation suits and put on the topmost one. Then he rushed back downstairs and outside, and followed the smell of fresh cooked hot dogs and hamburgers to the outdoor barbecue pit where Kight, Dwight, and Archbishop Fitzwater were cooking dinner for the night. "Pardon me," he pushed past them and shoved the ruined suit, shrink wrap and all, into the flames.

"Monk, you can't put that there, we're...!" Kight started coughing as thick black smoke rose off the grill. "You'll thank me later," the detective called to them as he rushed back to the field of play. They had apparently restarted without him, as Wendy was chasing one of Stottlemeyer's passes towards the cabin. It was just beyond her reach, though, and crashed into the window--right next to where Ambrose was watching the game. Startled he jumped back a few inches. "Sorry, sorry," she called to him.

"No problem at all," the instruction manual writer pushed open the window.

"You should really come out and join us," Benjy ran up to collect the football.

"Uh, no," Ambrose shook his head firmly, "Watching is fine by me."

"Well, if you insist," Wendy seemed a little disappointed nonetheless. "Hey, too bad I didn't get to meet you during the Olympics," she told him, "If I hadn't been--well, stuck in the middle of what I was doing, I probably would have liked to have met you then."

"Well, I'm just glad you saw the light and stopped doing it so we could meet now," Ambrose reminded her, "It is nice to actually meet a fan face to face; sure, I get the letters from people all over the country saying they think I'm great as Adrian Monk's smarter brother, but to actually meet them face to face, that's a plus."

"Yeah, but are you really the smarter brother?" she raised a teasing eyebrow.

"Yes, he is," Adrian confirmed for her, "He just chooses to use his mental strength in the wrong arenas."

"Oh, so only detective work's the right place for intense deductive reasoning!?" Ambrose frowned, "Well, Mr. Smart Guy, it's pretty easy to see why Dad always tells me I'm his favorite."

"And what does that have to do with anything, Ambrose?"

"Hey come on, are we going to get that ball back or what!?" Stottlemeyer shouted impatiently from near the dock.

"Oh, right, sure," Benjy tossed it towards Jack Sr., who was closest. "Yeah, he is the smarter brother like they said," he told Wendy, gesturing at Ambrose, "He knows everything; just ask him anything."

"OK, then, how about..." Wendy thought hard, "Name all the...kings of France."

"Is that the best you can ask?" Ambrose almost scoffed, "All right then, beginning with the crowning of Charlemagne, considered by many the founding of the French state as we know it, the Carolingian Dynasty was ruled by, in turn from 843 to 987, Louis I, a.k.a. Louis the Pious, Charles II 'the Bald,' Louis II 'the Stammerer,' Louis III, Carloman II, Charles the Fat, Odo of Paris, Charles III 'the Simple,' Robert I, Rudolph, Louis IV 'from Overseas,' Lothair, and Louis V 'the Lazy.' Of the succeeding Capetian Dynasty, ruling from 987 to 1328, Hugh Capet, Robert II 'the Pious' as well, Henry I, Philip I, Louis VI 'the Fat,' Louis VII 'the Young,' Philip II, Louis VIII 'the Lion,' Louis IX 'the Saint,' for whom St. Louis is in fact named essentially, Philip III 'the Bold,' Philip IV 'the Fair,' infamous for his suppression of the Knights Templar in 1307 which also led to the rise of the popular thought of Friday the 13th as an unlucky day, Louis X 'the Quarreller,' John I 'the Posthumous,' Philip V 'the Tall,' and Charles IV 'the Fair,' as well. Of the Valois Dynasty, ruling from 1328 to 1589, Philip VI, the Fortunate,' John II 'the Good,' Charles VI 'the Wise,' Charles VII 'the Victorious,' placed on the throne with Joan of Arc's help, Louis XI, the infamous Spider King who tortured his enemies horribly and treated them like caged animals, Charles VIII 'the Affable,' Louis XII 'Father of the People,' Francis I, Henry II, Francis II, Charles IX, and Henry III. Of the Bourbon Dynasty, ruling from 1589 to the French Revolution in 1792, Henry IV, Louis XIII, Louis XIV, Louis XV, and Louis XVI, with his son sometimes called Louis XVII even though he was never crowned. Of the Bourbon Restoration from 1814 to 1830, following the Republic and Napoleon I's reign and Napoleon II's non-reign, Louis XVIII and Charles X served as the last pure kings, with some arguing that Louis XIX and Henry V served after them, but that is currently open to much dispute. Louis-Phillipe 'the Citizen King,' ruled from 1830-1848, and after the Second Republic was instituted for four years, Napoleon III ruled from 1852 until he was deposed following the Franco-Prussian War in 1870 and the Third Republic founded, ending the monarchy, although the Legitimist-Orleansists branches of the family still reject the rulers of the Third through Fifth Republics and have laid claim to rule of France."

"Wow, you are for real," she was very impressed.

"So if that was easy, give him something that'll really challenge him," Benjy pressed her, enjoying it.

"Benjy, come on, he's not a toy," his mother stepped out of the cabin, shaking her head disapprovingly, "Tell everyone dinner'll be ready in about five minutes or so."

"Adrian, we're ready if you are," his father called. The detective hustled after the children back to the line of scrimmage. "I'm ready," he said out loud, trying to ignore everyone's incredulous looks at his radiation suit. The moment the ball was snapped, however, Jared pushed right past him--pushed hard into the detective, in fact, sending him to the ground again. "Uh, foul, I think that was a foul," he mumbled weakly, raising his hand.

"Not from what I can see, Mr. Monk," Turcotte shook his head, "Are you sure you're up to this?"

"Oh, of course, sure," Adrian looked around and saw Archbishop Fitzwater observing the game nearby. "Uh, Father, um, substitution?" he waved.

"Don't mind if I do. Hold this, please," the archbishop handed the detective his cane and took his place on the line of scrimmage. "OK, last play," Stottlemeyer proclaimed to his teammates, "Button hook over the middle, on three, one, two, three!"

To the surprise of all, Archbishop Fitzwater charged right past a still stationary and not ready for him Jonathan and crashed full force into the captain, sacking him before he could release the ball. "How'd you manage to do that!?" Max was quite impressed.

"Wisconsin All-State, 1957 and 1958" the priest took his cane back from Adrian, "And apparently the Lord left me with still a little bit of the old rush to the end."

"Only a little?" Disher was equally impressed. He bent over his still-prostrate superior. "You OK, captain?"

"Oh sure I'm OK, lieutenant, if OK means you've just had your spine driven right into your skull," Stottlemeyer groaned, extending his arms for Disher to pull him up, "I don't know what he's been eating lately," he pointed at the archbishop once he was upright again, "But I'd definitely like some of that."

"Dinner's ready," Dwight had a tray of hamburgers in his hands as he walked into the cabin. Everyone eagerly ran after him. Adrian took off the radiation suit and folded it as best he could. He'd probably have to burn it too, but that could wait till later. Right now, he was as hungry as everyone else.

He frowned as he stepped onto the second floor patio, where the table was set up, though; Harold was arranging each plate, utensil, glass, and condiments in a manner the detective found irritating. "You're doing it all wrong!" he scolded his rival, "They're not even lined up properly with each other!"

"You know what, Adrian, how did I know it was going to come to this!?" Harold looked ready to explode, "Nothing I ever do satisfies you, even though I'm doing all your friends here an important favor by setting this up right for them! What is it that'll make you satisfied, go on, tell me, what!?"

"You know exactly what, Harold; I'll be satsfied if I got my hands on a time machine, went back to a year and a half ago, and helped your cousin shove you off the roof; then not only would you not be here to irritate me, but Trudy's garage would still be there for me to look...!"

"Adrian, come on," Dr. Bell stepped between the two of them, frowning deeply, "Now you're stepping way outside the line of decency. I think you can grant Harold this much to make sure the plates are all lined up, okay? He has the right to be useful here too, like him or not."

"But they're not lined up!" Adrian gestured at the table settings, "How can anyone call that...!?"

"Actually, Mr. Monk, I don't really find them out of place," Bobby spoke up, taking his seat near the head of the table, "Anyone else agree with me?"

Almost everyone started nodding. Adrian knew when he was beaten. He reluctantly took a seat near the middle of the table facing the cabin as Kight came onto the patio, helping his wife along with one hand while holding a bluetooth to his ear. "...I do understand, I guess," he was saying, "Just have her let me know when she is ready, then. Tomorrow afternoon? I guess that'll work out, yeah. Right, same to you, just let me know if there's another change. Change of plans," he told his guests, helping Elizabeth into a cushioned deck chair next to his place at the head of the table, "It seems there's been some unforeseen circumstances with our documentary director, and thus Ms. Stottlemeyer-Marshall won't be able to come tonight to film the first set of interviews for the Monkstock documentary she signed up for (Adrian heard Stottlemeyer let out a low sigh of relief that he'd have more time to figure out how to face his ex-wife without blowing his stack over her increasingly excessive alimony payments that had seemed to triple after her latest feature film had been a surprise success). So I guess we'll have to make do with something else."

"Is there anything else?" a still glum-looking Gail asked.

"Well," Kight dug out a program and leafed through it, "The carnival rides do start up tonight, and there's a hay ride around the lake if you're all up to that."

"Hay rides?" Adrian frowned, "With hay flying all over the place off the back of the wagon, coming out of the bales...?"

"That does sound pretty good, Tim," Natalie spoke up, "I'm sure we can love with that."

"Certainly not," her mother was frowning, "Isn't there something with a little more class we can do?"

Natalie glared at her. "Actually, Mother, a hayride's fine by me," Jonathan spoke up, "Never actually been on one before, so it might be worthwhile."

"How do we get there from here, then?" Jack Sr. asked Kight, apparently content that they'd be doing this after dinner.

"Right, I should point out, to get to town and the main festivities, there's a trail behind the cabin," Kight pointed to a dirt path winding into the woods, "Follow it for about two miles--it is marked on the trees--and you'll come out right by the marina area. Go about another half mile over the bridge, and you'll get to the loading area; it's pretty well marked. The ride lasts about forty-five minutes to an hour, so you know, so you should..."

"Enough talk about that, let's eat," Jack Jr. spoke up, his fingers hovering eagerly over the hamburger tray.

"Uh, OK then; Father, since you showed up for this, maybe you could give a few appropriate prayers?" Kight asked Archbishop Fitzwater.

"It would be an honor," the priest gestured for everyone to bow their heads. "Lord, we thank you for this feast which you have allowed us to create," he said solemnly, "And for the company you have brought us. Bestow nothing but more feasts and happy moments throughout the rest of the week to come. We ask this in the name of your Son, Jesus Christ our Lord, amen."

"Let's eat," Jack Jr. grabbed a fistful of hamburgers at once. Adrian shook his head. He examined the food before him. A hot dog and a hamburger weren't exactly the type of foods he'd normally eat, particularly given what was often said to be inside them, but in lieu of a more fitting main course, they'd have to do. He picked up one of each. Unfortunately, the edges of the hamburger weren't rounded off. He scanned the rest of the burgers on the plate nearest to him, but they were all rippled as well. Sighing, he picked up the knife Harold had set in front of him and slowly sawed away at the edges, trying to get them all smooth. By the time he was done, the hamburger had been reduced to the size of a quarter. He bagged the excess pieces and set them aside, pondering who to give them to. He also noticed chips and corn on the cob set up for anyone who wanted them. He scanned the chips for symmetrical pieces, and the corn for cobs with an even number of kernels per row. It took some searching, but he finally found some that passed the grade and put them on his plate. Ever so slowly, he started eating the corn one kernel at a time. "So, Mr. Kight, what is the rundown for the week, interviews aside?" Disher asked their host.

"Well, not too much formal," Kight looked over the schedule, "There'll be concerts every night this week, plus episode screenings inside the convention center next to the fairgrounds, and lots of themed carnival attractions. Two days from now, if you all feel like it, I've set up autograph sessions with you and the fans--some of the actors may even be there as well, so you're prepared in case you think you've come face to face with yourself. Now Wednesday's the big one; remember how I said we'd started an essay contest for fans over why they liked the show?"

Adrian nodded, although it had seemed too vague and generic a contest description to work with, he'd thought initially. "Well, the grand prize winners will go take a train excursion with all of you on Wednesday," Dwight picked up the description from his partner, "We're throwing a mock murder mystery on board; if they can successfully solve it before you can, Adrian, they win ten thousand dollars and a new car."

"How, how about a set of wipes and a rock polishing kit too?" the detective proposed, "That fits the spirit of the show just as well, and..."

"Hey Tim," came a call from the lawn below. Adrian glanced over the side to see an elderly couple standing there. "We've got your pies," the woman called up.

"That's great, Harriet, leave them down on the table in the living room, and we'll go get them," Kight called back, "Monk's here now, as if you probably guessed from the leaves down there."

"Hello," Adrian forced a wave; the second floor was high enough to start his acrophobia tremoring. "That's George and Harriet Lewis, they live in the cabin right next to ours," Elizabeth pointed to the east, "They offered to bake us pies for all of you."

"Great, as long as they don't have shell casings in them," Ambrose remarked.

"Hey, everything still intact inside there?" George called up as his wife entered the cabin with the pies.

"Yeah, George, why?" Kight leaned over the railing, perplexed.

"Oh, it's just Harriet and I thought we saw some guy lurking around the cabin the day before you came up," the old man pointed out.

"Really?" Adrian called down, closing his eyes to keep the acrophobia at bay, "What did he look like?"

"It was just a dark mass; could have been a bear, maybe," George told him, "We checked in the morning, but everything looked normal, so we figured it was OK."

"Ah," Adrian rose up and bustled back into the cabin. "Mr. Monk, come on, like he said, it was probably just a bear," Natalie fell in behind him, "Now there's no mystery here, really; you promised you would just let whatever might pop up go, since this is your special week."

"Just better make sure," Adrian said without turning around. Ignoring her frustrated sigh, he pushed open the door to the porch, almost stumbling over the chunk of the parking garage (even with the help of several people, they still hadn't been able to get it into the cabin, so he'd reluctantly agreed to leave it outside, and had begged everyone not to mess with it). "About which side of the cabin did you think you saw this person on?" he asked the Lewises.

"Around the right side there," Harriet pointed. Adrian bustled around to the spot in question and stared into the bushes. At first nothing out of the ordinary was apparent. A glance over the shrubbery, however, proved more. "This was no bear, Natalie," he proclaimed, pushing back the bushes to reveal a set of boot prints right up against the cabin, "These look like they're three days old, all right. Someone WAS out here before we showed up."

* * *

"Just because someone was walking around outside the cabin doesn't make him an archcrook, Monk," Stottlemeyer was arguing the point as they all emerged from the trail through the woods next to the marina as Kight had predicted, "It was probably just another renter up here, or at worst some homeless tramp who wanted a place to spend the night but decided to look elsewhere in the end."

"Maybe, but if it was a tramp, why NOT break in?" the detective posed, "It's clear no one was around, he didn't know he was being watched, and there's no alarm systems."

"Adrian, you're reading into it way too much," Sharona sounded frustrated to the max over the conversation, "I'm telling you right now, we're not going to dwell on anything like this unless we actually have a body to work with, because I refuse to let you turn this into another case without reason. I want to enjoy this week."

"And who says we can't enjoy it if there's a villain on the loose?" Jack Jr., by contrast, seemed excited at the prospect of being involved in another case, "In fact, I think that'll make this all the more fun if we have to catch another killer."

The nurse stared at him incredulously. "I think prison's done something to your brain," she snorted.

"You know what your problem is, you've been away from the hunt too long to really...well hello there, ladies," the ex-con smiled at a pair of attractive women walking by, "Say, how'd you like to have a nice, happy evening with...?"

His father elbowed him sharply in the ribs. "What!?" Jack Jr. shouted defensively.

"Almost forgot, Rule #6, absolutely NO one night stands either," Jack Sr. warned him, "I do NOT want strange women spending the night at the cabin, and Mr. Kight would agree with me completely. Furthermore, if you do impregnate another woman, you marry her, period."

"Well first off, they never proved any of those children were mine," Jack Jr. shot back, "And secondly, they were all money-grubbers, those women..."

"All thirteen of them? Tell me why I find that hard to believe?"

"Because you're a senile old coot with no sense of imagination, and Adrian would say..."

"Hey, Natalie!" an excited and familiar voice called out from across the roadway. Adrian recognized it immediately. "Lieutenant Albright," he waved to Mitch's best friend in the navy, now hustling across traffic to the crowd, "So you came for this too, I see."

"I got two weeks shore leave, and figured I might as well. You look lovely tonight," Albright pulled Natalie into a warm embrace.

"Oh, you've been saying that since the day we met," she teased him.

"And I'll never get tired of saying it. And my, my, Julie my dear, you've gotten so big now I can barely recognize you," he smiled fondly at the girl (Adrian could relate to that completely; it was hard for him to comprehend that she was now eighteen and would be heading off to college very soon).

"Thanks, Mr. Albright," she blushed, embarrassed, "Hey, we're going on a hay ride, want to come along?"

"Uh," Adrian quickly counted heads. The Kights had stayed home--Elizabeth's doctor had instructed her to take it easy with the baby so close to delivery now--the Davenports had followed through with their essential boycott of the hay ride, although Jonathan had broken ranks and gone along; Ambrose not surprisingly had claimed he couldn't leave the cabin to go, despite his father's pleadings that he could and that it wouldn't be the same without him; Harold had stayed behind basically out of spite; Troy had stayed behind out of apparent boredom--he'd had his nose buried in his psychiatry books ever since Archbishop Fitzwater had picked him up this morning, as if something was on his mind--and Tommy had refused to go, prompting Christie to stay behind as well in an attempt--very desperate attempt, Adrian was coming to realize--to get through to him. He totaled up the remaining number of people in the group. "Here's, here's the thing, Steve," he told Albright, "If, if you come, we'll have an odd number of people going, and that really won't..."

"Oh, we'll be glad to have you along," Dr. Bell interrupted, patting Albright on the back. Adrian sighed; Dr. Kroger would have been more accommodating, he thought to himself.

"All right then, thank you very much," the navy man shook the psychiatrist's hand, "Dr. Bell, isn't it? We met briefly getting off the sub, I remember."

"Yes, I remember that like it was yesterday," Dr. Bell nodded, "You at the hotel in town?"

"Yes I am," Albright confirmed, "And let me tell you," he addressed Adrian, "That place is packed to the ceiling with people who know you. I'm sharing a room with that lawyer friend of yours; he won't stop talking about how you've had some great adventures together."

"Garrett Price, yes," Adrian sighed, not really sure he was happy Price had shown up, "My, my advice is, try to just get used to him; really, he never stops talking about ANYTHING, period."

"Well, thanks for the tip, Mr. Monk," Albright shrugged, "Well, who else is here with you for the week?"

Adrian introduced the rest of his party one at a time, finishing just as they'd finished crossing the bridge Kight had mentioned. "Well, I'd say you're really cared for, Mr. Monk, given they all took time out to come here," Albright commended the detective.

"Hey, for Adrian, we'd do anything," Jack Jr. shook his hand, "And any friend of his is a friend of mine, so if you need anything, pal, just ask and it shall be done. Ah, there's the hay wagons now."

Indeed, a large hay wagon attached to an equally large tractor was stationed outside a low building with a ticket window. "First one there's a rotten egg!" the ex-con shouted to the children, leading them on a mad dash to the wagon. "Well, he seems like a friendly type," Albright confided in Jack Sr., "Why the two of you don't get along, I don't know."

"I'll give you one reason why right now," the former trucker was rolling his eyes in disgust, "He just swiped your wallet while you shook his hand."

Albright dug through his now empty pockets. "Hey!" he shouted, barrelling after Jack Jr. It was now that Adrian noticed another familiar figure waiting right by the hay wagon. Dwight also had seen her. "Marci," he gestured, shaking her hand, "I suppose everything's in order for tomorrow?"

"Everything's set to go, Mr. Ellison," the obsessive fan of Adrian said with a wide smile. "Oh, Adrian," she greeted her idol with another, wilder handshake, "Your father-in-law here hired me as senior event coordinator for Monkstock; isn't that great?"

"I, uh, suppose so, Marci," Adrian waved wildly at Natalie for a wipe, "So, I, uh, I guess F. Murray Abraham didn't really work out for you?"

"Oh, he wasn't really that understanding when I approached him about how wonderful I thought he was at the time," Marci said (Adrian had a feeling he knew why), "So I switched back to you, and let me say I'm sorry I ripped you up when we were about to get killed and all that, and as the operator of the biggest fan site for you on the web--again--Mr. Ellison hired me to run the daily operations of the festival. So if you'll take a look here," she thrust the clipboard she was holding right into the detective's face, "Organized by the hour, just like you'd want it, and the booths on the midway laid out in perfect grids, with..."

Adrian was only half listening (how anyone could fully listen to Marci whenever she started rambling about anything was beyond him). He stared hesitantly at the back of the wagon. "Uh, shouldn't, shouldn't there be seatbelts here, or some other kind of safety device?" he asked the driver, walking around from the front.

"Don't worry, Monk, if we tip over, the hay'll cushion any impact," the driver set up a footstool near the rear bumper, "All aboard who's coming aboard."

"Yes, well, shouldn't we take at least some measures to improve safety here?" the detective continued pressing as the rest of his party eagerly climbed on board, "At least you could provide crash helmets for anyone who requests them, as I'm sure they do pretty much every time you take this thing for a spin, am I right?"

"Nope, you're the first one to complain," the driver looked like he knew Adrian would complain, "Are you getting on or not!? We pull out in two minutes, with or without you."

"Um, Adrian examined the hay closely, "You, you stacked an odd number of bales on here, I'm not sure..."

"Adrian, just get on the damn wagon!" Sharona seized his wrist and pulled him roughly on board. "Now just find somewhere where you won't cause any problems, all right!?"

"I still think they should have put seatbelts on here," Adrian protested, but knew he really didn't have much say in the matter. He looked around the wagon and decided the still unoccupied largest bale in the middle would be the best choice to make. "Uh, Natalie, the whole box," he tapped her on the shoulder from her position on the port side next to Albright. She raised her eyebrows, but still dug the box of wipes from her purse and handed it to her employer. Adrian tore it open and laid each and every wipe down on the hay bale before he finally sat down. He scraped some loose piles of hay away from it so they wouldn't end up flying up his pant legs when they were in motion. "I really don't see how anyone could find something like this fun, honestly," he told the children, all bunched near the front of the wagon, "This is kind of like what I'd thought a way station on the road to Hell might look like."

"You'll like this in the end, Mr. Monk," Becky reassured him.

"Absolutely, Adrian," Jack Jr. slapped him affectionately--a little too hard, in fact--on the shoulder, "I can't think of a better way to start the week off right."

"Other than being a pickpocket?" his father grumbled across from him.

"Say, how far does this thing go?" Jonathan called to the driver as he climbed onto the back himself.

"One full lap around the lake," the driver answered, "Usually takes about forty-five, fifty minutes."

"And in case someone needs to use the restroom during that time?" Adrian had to know just in case.

"I don't think we need to worry too much about that, Mr. Monk. Let me give you a hand there," Jonathan helped Gail climb up on the wagon. "I don't think I did properly introduce myself yet," he flashed her a bright smile, "Jonathan Davenport's the name, of Davenport Toothpaste fame."

"Gail Fleming, of the Fleming Self-Help Acting School," she flashed her own, weaker smile, "This is my first time on one of these things too."

"And me, too," Marci was the last one on board (Adrian's reluctance to have her accompany them was counterbalanced by his knowledge this at least left their party with an even number). "OK, let me give you the run-down on this trip," she rambled, glancing at her notes, "During the trip around the lake, you'll see the best of the well-loved fall foliage Breckman Lake has to offer, as well as the chance to see much of the native wildlife in their natural habitats, and maybe even a surprise or two along the way. Anyone have any questions before we cast off?"

"Yeah, I have a question, Marci--a very personal question I've been hoping to ask you for a while now," Sharona raised her hand, a deep frown on her face, "Not that I'm complaining or anything, mind you, but I watch all the episodes when they air too, and I can't help noticing that when you met up with Adrian again at the beginning of this season, and you were showing him your...collection, for some unknown reason, you have Natalie as his aide during our first meeting with Ambrose during the case of the cherry pies, or Three Pies as I guess it ended up in the end. Care to explain why!?"

Marci rather surprisingly formed a frown of her own that matched the nurse's in intensity. "Well, I think you probably know the answer to that," she responded with more than a little coolness in here voice, "If you don't, I'm sure a lot of the people here can help you out."

There came a low thump before things could get more heated as the driver tossed the footstool up onto the wagon and locked the rear panel into place. "Here we go!" he announced loudly, springing for the tractor. Adrian gripped the wipe-covered edges of the bale as the tractor took a sudden jerk forward, coupled with the engine roaring louder as the driver brought it up to full steam and pulled forward towards a path leading into the woods on the far side of the lake. "You're going way too fast!" he shouted towards the tractor, "You're going to kill somebody like this!"

"Monk, he's going five miles an hour at most!" Stottlemeyer sighed, "If we do tip over, you'll have plenty of time to jump off and possibly save yourself." He turned and glanced at the reflection of the now setting sun on the lake, with some of the Cascades in the distance adding their reflections as well. "And let me say, you two made a good choice of a vacation spot all those years ago," he told the Ellisons, "We couldn't have asked for better scenery."

"Nope, we sure couldn't," Albright agreed. He glanced at one last promotional billboard for Monkstock along the trail before it slipped under the shade of the woods. "The ultimate get-together for everyone obsessed with America's favorite detective," he read out loud, "I guess you never imagined it would ever come to this, did you, Mr. Monk?"

"No, Steve, I didn't," Adrian admitted, grabbing a maple leaf falling from a tree and stuffing it in his pocket, ready to add it to the red pile when they got back, "In fact, there was a good long stretch when I was pretty convinced I'd never leave my apartment again, let along solve any more cases and have my name become famous on TV."

"So what did make you want to come out again?" the naval man inquired.

"I had to find Trudy's killer," the detective told him, "As long as he or she's still out there, there can never be any balance or semblence to the world."

"I understand. Pretty much the same with what happened when we lost Mitch, right?" Albright asked Natalie next to him.

"For a while, yes, but in time you have to realize that you've got to find a new balance, and I'm glad to say by now I've found it by now," she said with a smile, "My life is great, and I couldn't ask for anything more."

"I'm sure you couldn't," Albright said with a smile that Adrian thought for a moment seemed slightly mechanical--but perhaps it was just the lack of sunlight coming through the canopy. "Oh, Julie," he waved her over, "Before I forget, since I've heard you're graduating this year, I figured you might deserve something for the occasion, so I picked out this."

He pulled out of his pocket a rather impressive gold necklace with a red and blue eagle at its base. "Wow, thanks!" she exclaimed happily, eagerly putting it on, "And you remembered the eagle's my favorite animal, too!"

"Because it reminds you of your father, yes, I remembered," he smiled warmly, "And I know that somewhere, he's very proud of you right now."

"Agreed," Adrian nodded, trying to pull loose pieces of hay out of the bale he was sitting on so the surface would be even and laying them in the nearest loose pile.

The next few miles went without too much excitement as far as the detective was concerned. Sure, Marci started rambling again about what awaited them the next day at the festival, and Archbishop Fitzwater, who'd explained he'd minored in animal studies in college before turning completely to the priesthood, explained about the native animals of the Breckman Lake area to anyone eager to listen, but the detective was largely in his own world, trying to make the hay at least livable. He was struck by Albright's statement and his admission how they'd never thought it would come to this. There had been days after Trudy's murder when he'd had no desire to so much as get out of bed, and was thoroughly convinced his life was over for all intents and purposes, and his best bet would have been to end it and join Trudy in the next world. He'd been convinced he'd never get it together again, that he'd never be able to make a useful contribution to the world again. And now here he was, amazingly, with over a hundred cases solved since then, finally getting somewhat closer to Trudy's killer, and finding himself the star of the most popular show in the country (true, he largely had Benjy's superior writing skills to thank for that, but it was an honor nonetheless). He'd've never guessed this would have been the path life would have given him to take back then.

The sharp knocking of a woodpecker at work directly overhead brought him back to his senses. "Oh, I think our old cabin should be coming up very soon," Marsha announced, "It should be right over that bridge and around that bend there."

She pointed ahead on the path. In the gathering darkness, Adrian could make out a dark mass through the trees. "Anyone live there now?" he inquired, turning to face the starboard side of the wagon as everyone switched to that side as well for an up-close peek.

"Not at the moment at least," his father-in-law shook his head, "I checked the register of cabins when we came up, and it was unoccupied. Actually, the clerk said nobody really rents it out much anymore, since it's comparatively old compared to the others around here and was in need of maintenance even back when we had it. Here it comes now."

Adrian leaned over his half-brother to take a look at the Ellisons' old cabin--and was surprised when, after a few seconds, he saw what looked like a weak light glowing in the den area. "Anyone see that?" he pointed.

"See what, Monk?" Disher squinted in the general direction of his finger.

"I think someone might actually be in there...maybe," Adrian squinted again, but now the light wasn't there.

"I don't see anything," Wendy shook her head, "Maybe it was just a reflection on the tractor's headlights or something."

"Looks like it's actually boarded up, too," Gail chimed in, pointing at the various wooden beams over the door, "I don't think anyone can get in."

"Well, maybe you're all right," Adrian conceded, although he wasn't completely sure. It had for a moment certainly looked like an artificial light in there to him...


	4. Midnight Murder

An owl hooted loudly in a tree beside the beach. Adrian tried to block it out as he ran his comb gently over the sand, trying to smooth it out evenly. The rest of the hayride had gone without anything of interest, but the brief flash of light in the Ellisons' abandoned cabin still lingered with him. Had it just been his imagination? Looking across the lake now to where the cabin was situated, there was nothing to see at all, so perhaps it had been.

"Still out here, Mr. Monk?" the Kights were coming down to the beach to join him, "It is quarter after eleven now."

"Got to get this finished by morning," Adrian suppressed a yawn, "Otherwise everyone'll be trampling all over the sand and wreck it even more."

"So I guess you intend to do this all week?" Elizabeth inquired.

"If I have to," the detective responded, "I, I do have to ask; you didn't happen to notice anything out of the ordinary across the way in the Ellisons' old place while you've been here?"

"Not at all, and we have been looking, Mr. Monk," Kight shook his head.

"Ah," Adrian nodded. He trained his high-powered flashlight on the sand. "Ac-Actually, that looks nice and even. Wait, almost."

Being sure to stay on the grass, he leaned forward and combed down a small--barely perceptible to the naked eye, in fact--sand hill he'd missed earlier. "There, now we're done," he proclaimed, bagging the comb before he pocketed it.

"Everyone's watching the Monday Night game if you want to join them," Kight offered.

"Well, maybe, maybe for a little while," Adrian yawned again, "It's been a long day, though, so probably not too long."

Something crossed his mind to ask his hosts that he'd been meaning to ask when they were alone in private. "Um, if I may," he spoke up, "If, if the two of you can help...what is it like to actually raise a child? Is it hard? Worth it?"

"Why?" Elizabeth's brow furled.

"Well, just curious, in case by some strange coincidence I...if somewhere down the line I end up..."

"If you have kids of your own some day?" Kight finished for him, "Well, Mr. Monk, it certainly is worth it, in every way. It requires a big commitment, yes, but if you're willing to give that commitment and more, you'll find happiness beyond your wildest dreams. Why, do you have someone in mind to...?"

"No, no, of course not," Adrian said emphatically, "I pledged to Trudy I'd be hers forever; I have to keep that pledge till my dying day." His expression softened extensively. "She said every now and then she wanted children at some point," he rued solemnly, "I said there'd be plenty of time to discuss it later. Of course, later never came. Every time I look at a child anymore, I can't help thinking what might have been. Then again, who's to say it would have worked; I'm certainly not the first person you'd want as a father."

"I'm not so sure I'd agree with that, Mr. Monk," his benefactor tried to cheer him up, "Sure, you take a little adjusting to get used to...OK, maybe a LOT of adjusting...but you're quite caring underneath your condition, and above all, you've got a pretty good sense of morality that..."

His wife let out a soft gasp at that moment. "Oh, I think the baby kicked in there," she exclaimed, glancing down at her stomach.

"It's ready already!?" Kight looked panicked, "The hospital's a good twenty minutes from...!"

"No, no, it was just a pang," Elizabeth reassured him, "Trust me, I'd know if she was coming out; after all, I have gone through it before."

Both the Kights' expression fell at the mention of their son again. Adrian felt compelled to pat them both on the shoulder in sympathy. "Thank you," Elizabeth commended him, "I'm just glad we managed to pull ourselves together to get another chance with Kaylee. We did almost split up after Joshua's death," she informed the detective somberly, "It was just too much pain to bear, and neither of us wanted to face it."

"They say it does happen a lot in those kind of circumstances," her husband added, "Don't feel too bad about wanting to die after you lost your wife; I spent three months after losing Joshua thinking of ways to kill myself that would look like an accident. I had settled on a hang gliding mishap when I finally went to counseling, and they made me realize Joshua probably wouldn't want me to do that, that I'd be honoring his spirit the best by picking up the pieces and being happy again, without forgetting him, of course. So Elizabeth and I started actually living again, and now," he swept his wife up off her feet, "We get another chance. Nothing could be better."

"Nothing at all," she smiled, yawning herself, "Well, it is getting late, so we might as well go in. You done out here, Mr. Monk?"

"I, I think I am," Adrian gave the beach one last check before nodded contentedly. He followed the Kights towards the cabin. "Oh, watch out for the..." he started to say a hair too late, as Kight stumbled over the block of the parking garage, almost dropping Elizabeth to the ground like a sack of potatoes. "Mr. Monk, I think you really need to move this," he grimaced.

"Maybe in the morning," Adrian shrugging, holding the concrete slab still as it started wobbing from the impact.

"Not that we're complaining, but did you REALLY have to bring it?" Elizabeth asked him, resignation in her voice, "It is rather ugly, Mr. Monk, and it ruins the rustic look here."

"Trudy needs to be here in spirit, and this is the best explicit way of making sure she is," Adrian argued, "Plus, it's also a message to Harold, that he may have gotten the garage knocked down, but he can never take away its memory."

The Kights shook their heads. "Well, if you really feel that way, Mr. Monk, but there's a reason Elizabeth and I don't tote around Joshua's belongings everywhere," his host told him.

"And that's entirely your own decision, and I respect that," Adrian told them. He stroked the parking garage wall affectionately. He hadn't given up his efforts to save the garage following the abrupt vote reversal caused by his momentary slip of the tongue. Desperate to reconvert Maria before the re-vote could be taken, he'd rushed to the nearest flower shop and returned with a bouquet of ten perfectly equal roses and a box of chocolates (all the same kind, of course), and had told her in the Council chamber that he'd been demonically possessed when he'd called her stupid while making the summation for the murder and swore that it would never happen again if she'd reconsider reconsidering. Her response to this wholehearted and humble gesture of his had been to scream for security to toss him out of the chamber and bar him from the building until after the vote had been taken (proving as far as he was concerned how really stupid she was, but there was no way he was going to say it to her face again, of course). Thwarted in this effort, he'd then taken his battle to the state supreme court, telling the justices that he felt strongly Maria's vote should be thrown out on the grounds that he'd coached her in the first place, and that the supreme court itself should therefore be given the honor of breaking the tie themselves. Unfortunately, they too had rejected him; apparently he had followed all the rules setting her up in the end, they'd claimed, and thus her vote to tear down the garage was valid, particularly since she'd ultimately gone against what he'd asked her to vote for, thus neutralizing his claim of tampering. He had briefly considered taking the matter nationally to the Supreme Court before everyone in his inner circle had finally convinced him--very reluctantly--that the garage would be long gone before the federal justices would ever see the case. The state court, though, had been instrumental in offering the city the compromise of naming the park after Trudy and allowing the detective to take the B-5 wall as a momento, and for that Adrian couldn't thank them enough.

Giving the slab a final pat for the night, he followed the Kights into the den, where everyone was eagerly clumped around the TV watching the game of the week. "So you're finally done with the beach, huh Monk?" Stottlemeyer asked him from the armchair closest to the TV, "Plop on down and join the fun. Come on, Condors!" he screamed at the players on the screen, "He's going to go up top, he always does on fourth and long, so watch...heads up, here it comes!"

On the TV, the Dallas quarterback heaved a deep bomb down the field that the receiver completely missed in the end zone. Everyone cheered at the turn-over on downs, then roared in amazement as the receiver, livid, charged up field and kicked the quarterback square in the groin in frustration. Adrian grimaced in discomfort. "Uh, well, that, that would be nice and all, but I am sort of tired, it's been a long day and all that," he said quickly, "Just, just try not to keep me awake if the game gets too exciting."

"You sure you don't want to stay, Monk?" Christie prodded him, cradling a now asleep Tommy in his lap.

"Sorry, Joe," Adrian yawned, "I've been up since four in the morning."

"I'm coming up too, Adrian," Ambrose let out a very large yawn of his own, "Can't really stay awake much longer myself, much as I'd like to."

Adrian merely grunted. His brother followed him up the stairs to the top floor, and then three quarters of the way around the upper level to what they'd chosen as their room (it actually was ten by ten, and that had been Adrian's primary motivator for the decision). "Which bunk do you want, Adrian, top or bottom?" the instruction manual writer posed to him.

"Um,...bottom. No, wait, top. No, bottom. Top. Bottom, definitely...top..."

"Well, scientifically, which one sounds less bad for you?" his brother inquired.

"Um..bottom. No chance for a heights problem there."

"Bottom it is, then," Ambrose climbed up the ladder to the top bunk, "And with all this fresh country air coming in, we're going to have a great night's sleep, I just know it."

* * *

Adrian sat upright in bed, a scowl welded to his face and his arms folded across his chest in disgust. This was certainly not the time he would have preferred to rediscover that his brother was a chronic snorer. He gave the bottom of the top bunk a hard slug as Ambrose let out a particularly loud snore that the detective was certain could be heard all the way down in San Diego. Ambrose snorted slightly from the impact, but continued snoring away, completely oblivious. Adrian jammed his pillow over his ears, desperate to block his brother out and get some sleep, but it was no use; he could still hear him. Growling, he rose up and stormed out of the room, eager to get away from it for a while.

The cabin was largely dark, with only the moon shining in from the patio doors to offer slight illumination. More snoring could be heard, the loudest coming from downstairs, where he knew his father and Archbishop Fitzwater, who had offered to sleep on the sofas, were sound asleep and making sure anyone who was awake knew it. Adrian felt like he needed air. He walked to the patio--but stopped when he heard voices out there and stepped back away from the doors so he wouldn't disturb them. "...lived in Phoenix for two years starting when I was twelve," he could hear Becky saying, "Not once could I ever see the stars this brightly."

"Yeah, I know," Benjy agreed softly (Adrian could just make out their silhouettes in the deck chairs next to the dining table), "I could never see the stars at all down in San Francisco. It's great to finally get a clear look." There was a momentary silence before he added, "I think that's Pegasus over there; see the square?"

"Oh yeah," Becky agreed, "Or are you sure? Libra looks like that too."

"Would Libra be that bright? I heard it was pretty faint."

"Maybe you're right," she conceded, "We ought to ask Mr. Monk's brother what to look for in the morning, since you said he knows anything and everything." There was another silence before she added, "I think that's Jupiter moving there through Virgo...or I think that's Virgo."

"Where?"

"Right there," Adrian could just make out her hand point straight up, "I heard it lets off a bright white light, and I think it moved backwards a few feet since we came out here. Boy the sky's just so beautiful when you can see it clearly."

"Beautiful, yes," Benjy said dreamily, "But of course there are other things that are...infinitely more beautiful."

"Oh really?" she teased him knowingly, "Like what?"

"Oh, I think you know what," he started leaning towards her. Adrian turned around and started humming uncomfortably as the kiss permeated through the air. Romance was still not something he could fully appreciate at this point in time, especially from someone who in his mind would always be in part as young as he'd been--seven--when the detective had first met him.

Just then there came a loud thrashing sound from what he knew was the room his assistants had agreed to share right next to his. "No, please, don't!" he could hear Sharona crying softly, as if she was having a nightmare, "No, don't! Trevor, please, stop! Leave her alone, it's me you want! I'm begging you, stop, please...NOOO!!!!"

This was punctuated by a loud scream that brought her son running off the patio and into her room as the light blazed on inside. Adrian mulled over going in to offer assistance, but decided it would be better to let the Flemings have their privacy on the matter. He wasn't surprised about the apparent content of his former assistant's nightmare, though; he still shivered at the thought of what her husband had done to her and Natalie the other Christmas during his final, insane burst of terror in Gettysburg. According to the hospital report the detective had seen after the fact--and it made him gulp nervously to be reminded of it--Trevor had stabbed his wife a horrific nineteen times, shot her seven more, broken eleven bones, had choked her severely several times judging by the condition of her neck afterwards, and subjected her to a horrible prolonged beating, including taking a basball bat blow square to the face so severe that the doctor had told Adrian that he was absolutely shocked she hadn't died instantly from it. Natalie had fared slightly better over the four hours of torture they'd gone through, probably because Trevor's primary rage had been directed at his wife for what he'd perceived as her attempt to coldly slander him with the show; nevertheless, Natalie had also been stabbed eight times, and from what the detective had seen, had most likely also been....had also been...he simply couldn't bring himself to think about it. He had seen the pills Natalie had taken at the hosptial afterwards, and had immediately deduced with a sinking stomach what had transpired, and given the gravity of it had sworn to let her carry the knowledge herself.

He quickly slunk downstairs to ensure their privacy. This also provided him with a firm opportunity to clean the kitchen, something he'd preferred to do without Harold's interference. He flicked on the lights and examined the plates and glasses in the drying rack. Luckily they seemed spotless as best as he could tell. He opened all the cabinet doors and glanced over the layout inside. This, unfortunately, was a bit more problematic, as the cups, plates, and other paraphernalia were lacksidaisially stacked about with no rhyme or reason. The same was true of the utensils when he checked the drawers. Sighing, he emptied everything out onto the table and started placing them back in their allotted areas properly.

The floorboards creaked behind him, making him freeze up momentarily. So you're up, Adrian?" Sharona had in fact come downstairs, "Why am I not surprised?"

"It was Ambrose; he's driving me crazy with his snoring," Adrian confessed, lining up a set of forks and putting them together in the drawers. Deciding not to tell her he'd listened in on her nightmare, he asked as innocently as he could, "So, what're you here for?"

"Oh, I just needed a drink," she wasn't going to tell him either. She opened the refrigerator and looked around. "How much Summit Creek have you got in here, Adrian!?" she had to ask. The fridge was filled from front to back with cases of it.

"About two hundred there, but please, no need to take that, that's my emergency stash..."

"So this is an emergency for me," she retorted, reaching for a bottle. Adrian rushed forward and seized it off her. "Adrian!" she glared at him.

"Look, the cap's seal's broken," Adrian pointed it out for her benefit, "You can't drink this one. Try..." he scanned the fridge for one that was still sealed tight. A compulsory glance told him he must have bought a defective box of Summit Creek at some point, for almost a dozen had their seals broken. In the back, though, several were still unscathed. "Try this one," he handed one of them to his former assistant, "But please, out of a cup if you're not going to drink it all; we have everyone's health to worry about."

"Yeah, I know, and tha't probably what's really keeping you up all night," she snorted, nonetheless taking a coffee mug from the table and pouring the water into it. Adrian, meanwhile, scooped up all the defective Summit Creeks, bagged them, opened the back door, leaned towards the nearest garbage can (he had no intention of actually stepping outside with nothing on his feet), and dropped them in. "So, you said you'd driven cross-country," he told Sharona as he closed the door again, "Was, was that, well, fun?"

"For the most part," she admitted, taking a sip, "But after a week on the road, you're just glad to get to where you're going, so it was good to finally make it here, and at least when his fiance shows up Randy won't be climbing all over me again try to propose. You'd think he would have learned by now I'd never say yes."

"Well, you know Randy, he never knows when to give up," Adrian put a set of plates back into the cabinet, "So, everything going well since you heard I was alive again."

"Oh, pretty good," Sharona said, but Adrian could detect some hesitation in her voice, as if there was more to it than she was going to let on, "It's a little hard adjusting with Benjy in college now, but I manage, and I tell myself, he's only an hour away if...if he needs anything."

She was definitely blocking something, Adrian figured. He decided not to press it, though. "Well, at least you're here with us now," he set, putting away the last of the dinnerware, "And Tim says we might do this every year as long as the show remains popular, so you can..."

"That's something I've been wanting to talk to you about, Adrian," she grew solemn, "I don't think I'm going to come to any more of these if there are more. I wanted to come to this one to make sure it went right, but also to basically...I'm ready to move on even more, Adrian, to get my life into an entirely different orbit away from yours, even if the fans won't let me."

"Apart from me, I see," he reasoned, not that surprised--indeed, he'd been waiting for her to say something to that extent. Now it was time for him to get something off his own chest. "Tell me then, Sharona how did you...when we were...it's just that...people keep saying a lot that, well, they think the two of us...when we were still working together...that maybe we should have...that maybe we still might...what I'm saying is...do you ever think the two of us could ever...you know what I saying...?"

"Yeah, I know what you're saying," Sharona told him softly, "Adrian, you know as well as I do the two of us could never have been happy in a relationship. You just...you just aren't the type of person I'd be comfortable with spending the rest of my life together with. And you need more affection that I could ever give you. You do understand, don't you?"

"Yes, I understand," Adrian nodded slowly, "So," he'd been waiting five long years to say what he was about to ask, "Was that actually why you left when you did, because you...you weren't comfortable with me anymore?"

"Oh Adrian, please don't put it that way," she sighed, "You want the whole truth? Well, if you have to know, you're only part right."

"So right nonetheless," his head sank, "You couldn't stand me."

"Adrian, come on!" she upbraided him. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "Yeah, to a degree, I kind of felt it was time to move on--but not as much you as much as I didn't want to be stuck in the same life forever, as it looked like I would be unless we found Trudy's killer then and there, and even though we'd learned about the six-fingered man right before that, the hill still looked pretty high to climb. I was getting a little restless, and given an escape option, I decided to take it. But mostly, Adrian, I did it for Benjy. All those years, I could tell he'd give anything to have Trevor and I together again, so I decided that Trevor had earned one last chance when he showed up after I thought I was seeing the dead body--and only one; I told him right before we got married again that I would call it quits for good if he screwed up again just one more time. So don't feel so bad about it; I left so Benjy could have a happier life. Of course, if I'd known Trevor wouldn't just revert to his old ways but go completely off the deep end, maybe I wouldn't have done it, or at least waited longer before doing it. But apart from that, I have no regrets, and clearly Natalie turned out just as good for you, so it all worked out in the end, didn't it?"

"I, uh, I guess so," he conceded, "I just, I just wish you hadn't just left in the middle of the night like that; it felt like..."

"Like I had abandoned you," she knew what was coming, "I'm sorry if I made you feel that way, Adrian, but you know as much as I do that if I'd said a word to you about it, you would have gotten on that plane too and wouldn't have left my side until you'd talked me out of it. And what good would that have done the victims in San Francisco who got killed the first few months after I left if you had followed me to New Jersey and refused to leave? Some of those cases might still have been unsolved, and all because you'd been unable to let go."

"Well, I would have gone back, eventually," Adrian argued, "I would have given up after about, oh, eight, nine months or so. Of course, I'd have to have the captain or lieutenant drive across the country to get me, since there'd be know way I'd get back on a plane, but..."

"See what I mean, Adrian, you would have behaved irrationally," she grumbled, "No, it was just as well that I left without telling you; you wouldn't have Natalie to lean on these days, and..."

"Hold on," Adrian held up his hand. He hustled to the window and opened it. A splashing sound could be heard from the lake. "That sounds a bit strange," he mused, glancing out the window, but finding himself unable to see anything with clouds over the moon.

"Don't worry about it, Adrian, it's probably just beavers or otters or some other lake life," Sharona said dismissively. She took a final sip of the water, "And I'm going back to bed now, so try not to do anything to disturb me."

She handed him the mug, which he promptly took to the sink, poured dishwashing liquid into, and started cleaning. As she was just about to leave the kitchen, she turned around and said softly, "And thank you."

"For what?" he was puzzled.

"Just thank you, Adrian," she gave him only a small smile before walking away. Adrian frowned in confusion, then shrugged. Getting an open compliment from her was reward enough.

He rinsed the mug out, set it down in the drying rack, and walked back over to the window. No sounds could be heard now. Maybe it had been a beaver after all. Shrugging again, he closed the window and flicked off the light, hoping against hope Ambrose had stopped snoring by now.

* * *

It was not to be, however, for Ambrose kept snoring away all night long. In the end, Adrian could only manage about four hours of sleep out of it, and was still bleary-eyed when he was awakened by raucous bantering from the patio at nine thirty or so, as a quick glance at his watch indicated. Groaning, he nevertheless heaved himself up and got dressed for the day. He stepped outside, almost walking right into Tommy, who was going past. "Watch where you're going!" the boy demanded at him.

"Oh, sorry, sorry," Adrian quickly apologized, "Listen, uh, Tommy, maybe, maybe we didn't quite get off on the right track yesterday; maybe you don't know me, but I know you; like I said, I took care of you for a week or so about five years ago, before you ended up with your new family. Can't you remember anything, like how I strapped you so nicely into the car seat whenever we drove anywhere, or when I had to call 9-1-1 because you had...well, it sort of was an emergency what happened, or how you were starting to imitate me whenever I...that being when I realized we...what?"

"OK, now you're starting to freak me out," Tommy indeed look panicked now, "I don't know who you are, and if you're really as psycho as you're talking right now, I don't think I want to!"

"No, no, I'm not psycho, Tommy, it's...you, you do know what obsessive compulsive disorder is?" the detective asked.

"Sure, and from what the bald guy says," Tommy gestured harshly towards the patio, clearly another jab at Christie, "You're the poster man for complete dysfunctionality if what he said was right. And you're really proving him right right now. So please, just stay away from me."

"I, I don't mean to hurt you, Tommy, I , I care for you, I wanted to adopt you, but I realized we could never live together and..." Adrian stopped abruptly when he realized his was freaking Tommy out even more. This was punctuated by the child running frantically away from him when he took a small step towards him unknowingly. Adrian's head drooped in sadness. For so long he'd wished to see Tommy again, but he'd never wanted the end result to be anything like this.

The bathroom door opened slowly behind him. "I heard everything, Mr. Monk," Julie stepped out and patted him sympathetically on the arm, "Want me to have a word with him?"

"Maybe, Julie, but I'm not sure it'll work," Adrian admitted, shaking his head softly, "He's probably a lost cause, I'll bet."

"We won't know until we try," she tried to encourage him, "Come on out; Becky's been waiting for you all morning."

"Why?" the detective asked, puzzled. He got his answer when he stepped out onto the patio, where Becky had set up an artist's easel and canvas and was drawing something in pencil on it. "Good, you're up, Mr. Monk," she greeted him cheerfully, "I wanted to make a group painting of us; have a seat right there."

"There?" Adrian grimaced, seeing he was being placed right next to a scowling Harold.

"Come on, Mr. Monk, she's been waiting all morning for you to get this painting done," Natalie pressed him from the far end of the table. Adrian sighed and reluctantly plopped down next to Harold. "You set this up, didn't you!?" he growled under his breath to his rival.

"So what if I did?" Harold muttered back, "I don't like being next to you in this any more than you do!"

"Don't play games with me, Krenshaw; I know you fixed it so I'd be beside you, and I'd have to put up with this too!" Adrian gestured sharply at the utensils set up next to his plate. Two different sized forks were right next to each other in the arrangement. The detective grabbed a spare fork from the nearest tray and substituted it with the out of place larger fork. Only to have Harold grab the original back and reinsert it into the arrangement. Adrian pushed it aside and jammed the replacement back into place. Harold tossed it to the floor and slammed the original back into place. Adrian tugged it out from under his palm and tossed it off the patio. "You want it here, go get it!" he snapped at Harold.

"YOU go get it!" Harold barked at him, rising to his feet.

"You get it!" Adrian snapped back.

"You!"

"You!"

"You!"

"Will the two of you both just grow up!?" Turcotte glowered at them, "My daughter has been waiting to paint a group portrait of us since she accepted the invitation to come here, so I'm asking you for the only time, just sit still and be quiet, OK!?"

"Right," Adrian quickly sat down, muttering to Harold under his breath, "But we all know you started it."

"Did not!" Harold hissed back.

"Did too."

"Did not!"

"Did too."

"SHHHHH!!!" a frustrated Stottlemeyer growled at them. Adrian turned away from Harold and forced a smile as Becky drew his outline on the canvas in pencil. He could tell she'd already finished most of the outlining of everyone (there was an empty space next to her father that he assumed she'd fill in with herself at a later time), and would only need to finish he himself to begin the actual painting. "There, that's good," she in fact proclaimed once Adrian had been drawn in pencil, "You can all relax now; I can finish this on my own time now."

"Looks pretty good, young lady," Bobby commended the rough copy from his spot near the head of the table, "I'm pretty good friends with a high-end art dealer in the Napa Valley area; maybe if you're interested, I can have him take a look at what you paint once you're done."

"Why thank you," she blushed, "I've always hoped to have a painting sold."

"Well, maybe we can work something out in the end," the toothpaste magnate smiled. "So, he turned to Kight, just finishing off his last set of pancakes for the day, "What's on tap for today?"

"I talked to Mrs. Stottlemeyer-Marshall; she should be over in about ten minutes or so, actually," Kight told him, "She thinks it'll take an hour at most to film the first set of interviews for her documentary."

"The first set?" Disher raised his hand, befuddled, "So there'll be more?"

"We set up a contract where she'd do one set at the beginning of the festival, one at the end, and as many in-between as she feels is necessary," Dwight informed him, "Now she thinks it'll be no more than an hour at most, then we've pretty much got the afternoon to ourselves, before we have you head on over to the opening ceremonies tonight in time," he turned to Jared, 'for our special keynote speaker and MC to give the introduction."

"Wait, did I miss something?" Stottlemeyer looked completely confused.

"Oh, one of my professors at college wrote that best selling guide to the show that hit shelves a few months ago," his oldest son explained, "He accepted Mr. Ellison's invitation to preside over the ceremonies."

"Uh, Dwight, while we're on that," Adrian raised his hand, "I did tell you that I'm not that good with crowds, especially if they're as large as you say they..."

Something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. "Uh oh, missed a ridge of sand last night," he mumbled, jumping up from his seat, "Better, better take care of it before it get out of control."

"And pick up that fork while you're out there!" Harold snapped at him, "Because I sure as hell aren't getting it!"

Adrian ignored him. Harold had brought the dilemma on himself, and thus could fix it himself. He hastened back to his room to get the comb he'd used the previous night, then rushed downstairs and out to the beach. He wasn't alone; Gail and Jonathan were standing on the dock, taking in the autumnal scenery. "...just before the national tour," Sharona's sister was telling the toothpaste heir, "Luckily Mr. Monk cleared me before that witch could steal my spotlight in New York."

"I had actually read about that in the papers," Jonathan told her, very interested, "Of course, there was no way of knowing we'd be meeting today like this. Well, I don't know if your sister told you anything about it, but I have Mr. Monk to thank as well; if she didn't tell you anything, I was duped into marrying a 'black widow,' I guess they're called, who planned to kill me after the wedding. Luckily he and Nat figured it out, and at least it finally got Mom and Dad to accept her for who she is. I'd been trying to drive it into their heads for years that they were too hard on her for marrying outside the money; I even sent her a couple thousand dollars under the table after Mitch died when it became clear she needed the...oh, speak of the devil, Mr. Monk, we were just talking about you. What're you up to now?"

"Just, just seeing to the health and safety of everyone here," Adrian started combing out the offending--and again barely noticeable to the naked eye--sand ridge.

"It's part of his duty in life, whether anyone understands it or not," his father was approaching the beach, "Can I have a word with him in private, you two?"

"If you insist," Jonathan shrugged. "Care for a quick trip on the lake?" he asked Gail, gesturing at the Kights' motorboat moored to the dock, "I don't think they'll need us for these interviews, at least not initially."

"I don't know..."

"Oh come on, you know you'll enjoy it," he pressed her. Gail shrugged. "Why not?" she said, climbing in after him. Jack generously untied it from the dock for them. "Just don't go too fast out there, you two," he called as Jonathan started the engine and pulled out onto the lake. "Nice couple," he told Adrian, finishing up with the offending ridge, "Kind of remind me of your mother and me when we first met--although of course she'd never set foot on a lake if her life depended on it."

"I'm sure she wouldn't have," Adrian stood up, "So what was it you wanted, Dad?"

Jack glanced around to make sure no one else was listening in. "Promise me you won't tell anyone what I'm about to tell you," he told his son softly, "Least of all Ambrose, because this would break his heart."

"That would depend on what you're saying," Adrian told him with raised eyebrows, "I hope you're not planning on driving off on this festival."

"No, no, certainly not that," Jack told him quickly. He took a deep, uncomfortable breath. "I went to the doctor's last month for a routine checkup, Adrian," he said slowly, "They took X-rays, and they found some..." he gulped uncomfortably, "...they found extensive cancer in the prostate. They said if they'd found it sooner, maybe they could have done something, but...if I'd known ahead of time..."

"You mean...?" Adrian's jaw dropped at what he was being told, "How...how much longer do they think...?"

"Doctor says probably I've got a year and a half left," Jack admitted ruefully, "Maybe as much as three if I'm really lucky. I wished this hadn't coincided with your big celebration, since I wanted to enjoy this with a clear conscience, but I guess that wasn't in the cards."

Adrian found his lip trembling. For years he would have been satisfied to have learned his father was dead or dying, figuring that would bring closure to their relationship and vindication for himself that the man had gotten what he'd deserved for driving off on his family. Now that he'd gotten to know him better over the last few years, however, this was coming off as a tragic development. "I...I..." he stumbled for the right words to say, "I'm sorry, Dad, I'd wish...I don't know what to say...I wish it weren't this tragic...that this might be the last time we..."

"Tragic? Maybe, but I've come to realize what's even more tragic than this," Jack turned to his son with a sad expression, "And I think you and Ambrose know what that is. But like I said, please don't say a word to him about this. He'd go all to pieces if he knew."

"Right, certainly," Adrian nodded firmly; the less Ambrose knew, the better, he agreed. "At least, at least you have redeemed yourself a little bit since we reconnected," he tried to cheer his father up, "That almost makes up for leaving--not totally, mind you, but it is some manner of penance."

"That's what I tell myself," Jack said, "And I'm so glad I did, Adrian. I thought when they pulled me over for running that red light that it was going to be the lowest moment of my life, having to explain to the boss that I was going to be much later than normal and knowing he'd probably fire me if I wasn't on time, but now I'm glad I did run that light, or I wouldn't have you again," he put an arm around his son, "And really, by finding you," he glanced warmly back at the cabin, "I found another family too--a much bigger family than I ever could have hoped to find, one that's willing to take me in without question and accept me--well, most of them; I think Mrs. Fleming and I are pretty much a lost cause. But hey, the last three years of my life have been the happiest out of all seventy-one I've had, and for allowing me to have that, I can't thank you enough, Son."

Adrian felt the tears rolling down his cheeks as the two of them embraced. He realized that perhaps for the first time in his life, he truly did love his father through and through; he knew for sure because it hurt deep down to realize he'd be losing the man in the near future. But he knew Jack was right; they had had three years together, and that had to count for something positive in the end, he reasoned.

The beeping of a horn cut off the embrace. A van was pulling up in front of the cabin. "Oh, Karen's here for the first set of interviews," he realized, "We'd, we'd better go in; she'll probably want a few words from you as well."

"Just tell me one thing: is she really as uptight as your pal the captain always says she is?" Jack had to know as they tromped back to the cabin, "Because if she's going to take me out of context to get the story across, I'm not really sure if I want to do this. And if she's as extreme a feminist as he says, that doubles the odds that..."

"I, I don't think you have too much to worry about, Dad," Adrian tried to assure him, but deep down he wasn't so sure himself about his father's concerns. He had seen Karen's last theatrical film, and had been deeply dismayed that she'd changed the historical facts about early suffrage pioneers to make them more victimized than he knew they'd actually been (the critics had agreed with his assessment by and large, and despite the film's eventual large gross, they'd panned it to the moon for the same reasons). And given the strong hints he'd picked up on that Karen's ego was starting to reinflate again due to the box office success of the film, he was a bit concerned how the interview was going to go.

Nevertheless, he decided to at least be cordial until she gave him reason not to be. "Karen," he waved at her as she climbed out of the van, a cameraman in tow carrying not just the camera but lights and sound epuipment as well, "Nice, nice to have you here. How've you been lately?"

"Just fine, thank you," she told him with just a little sharpness in her voice, "Is everyone ready in there?"

"We're all set when you are, Mrs. Stottlemeyer-Marshall," Kight walked out of the cabin and shook her hand.

"MARSHALL," she frowned at him, "How many times do I have to tell you I'm a married woman again, Tim!? All right, Jerry," she turned to the cameraman, "Get a few shots of the outside here for establishing shots. And I should tell you Tim," she turned back to the producer with a larger frown, "let me just say for the record that going back to documentaries is not what I'm comfortable with at the moment. I'm in serious negotiations to helm a bioptic on Lucrezia Borgia starting next month, and if I'm not completely free by then, they'll give it to someone else. I've wanted that project for two years now."

"Why am I not that surprised?" Jack whispered under his breath to his son. Unfortunately, Karen had heard him. "Excuse me, but it's considered polite to speak out loud when you're addressing someone," she snapped, glaring right in his face, "So care to repeat that, whoever you are!?"

"Not really, Mrs. Marshall. And it's Jack Monk, Sr., so you know," the former trucker told her.

"Oh yes," she openly sneered, "I've heard a LOT about you, Mr. Monk. Got it, Jerry?" she asked the cameraman, turning off the camera after taking a few shots of the cabin's exterior.

"Yep, looks like we're good," the cameraman flashed the okay sign.

"Then let's go on in and see what we can get," she waved him inside. Jack turned to his son once she was out of earshot and muttered, "Yikes!"

"Just, just be glad you weren't there right after she divorced the captain," Adrian told him with a shiver, "That was still the nadir. Once I had heard she wanted out of the relationship, I tracked her down and tried a last-ditch effort to get her to reconsider for their sons' sake. I really can't tell you some of the things she said to my face then; her films wouldn't nearly make as much if the public knew about what was said."

"I'll bet," Jack shuddered, "Well, might as well get it over with then."

The two of them sauntered into the cabin. The cameraman had set up one of his lights in front of Natalie, seated on the sofa and trying to get herself composed for the interview. Karen had the camera trained on the former bartender and was checking its focus while everyone else watched from out of the camera's range. "OK, that's pretty good," she announced out loud, "Are you ready?" she asked Natalie.

"Ready when you are," she said, looking nervous nonetheless.

"All right then," Karen hefted a script and gestured for the cameraman to turn the camera on, "Starting from the top, what did it feel like when you first signed on as Adrian's Monk's primary assistant?"

"Hmm," Natalie thought this over hard, "It took a while to get used to, honestly. I was used to a less rigid lifestyle, and then suddenly I found myself connected with a man who lived by the strictest schedule someone can imagine. Certainly, I did appreciate the publicity that came with the job--who wouldn't like their name in the paper for doing something great every now and then?--but there were a few times that I wondered if I got myself in over my head."

"So you did contemplate quitting at some point?"

"No, well...not really, um...what I'm..." Natalie fumbled for an appropriate answer, "I almost did about two weeks after he hired me; he was refusing to take my advice on a matter that from all sides would have been win-win for both of us (Adrian rolled his eyes; from his point of view, Natalie had forced him to sign away Trudy's office space, yet another error on her part that she still categorically refused to admit had been a mistake in the first place). But after I'd left him, I realize that maybe I was jumping too hard up his back too early, that I might as well give him more time to see the benefits of the situation. Really, it did take me some time to get used to his manner of thinking, I'll admit that. But once you get to know Adrian Monk, you can't help but like him. Underneath the squeamishness and rigidness is a caring human being who will always help you if you help him."

"And yet from what I've heard, you did quit for real last year, and only came back when you stood to go to prison."

"Um, well," Natalie took a deep swallow of discomfort, "The thing with the lottery was...a lot of people, even the best of us, can get blinded by the trappings of fame, and it can turn us into the exact opposite of people we would like to be. I'm sorry to say I fell into that trap, and I alienated the people around me for a brief while (she took a brief glance at her daughter in the wings, which Adrian completely understood; Julie had very often voiced her displeasure since the entire debacle at what her mother had almost become; then again, she'd also had some venom for him for jumping on Natalie about the matter while it was going on, which he completely disagreed with, since as far as he could see, his intentions had been more or less noble). I do wish some of them could have understood my point of view a little more as much as I needed to understand theirs (she was definitely frowning at him now; he had no idea why she was trying to dynamite her own words), but to the rest of you out there, I offer the cautionary advice, think before you leap when they offer you the world."

"I see," Karen mumbled, "Do you feel you've accomplished a lot in your position?"

"Well, we've put over a hundred people in jail. That counts for something. And I think I've personally helped Mr. Monk see the world a little differently, a little more broadly, and he's definitely a much happier man now than he was when I first met him."

"What is your aim for the future, after this festival is over and done with?"

"Well, first of all, catching Trudy's killer is tantamount," Natalie said definitively, "And then we'll have to find out what happened to my own husband; I just have a feeling we're this close to giving me closure too; I don't know why, but I just have the feeling we're close. Personally, I hope Mr. Monk can finally learn to be truly happy with what he's got, and to embrace life to its fullest. That's the only way any of us can live, really, and if I can help him reach that goal, I'll feel like I've accomplished something big."

"OK, that'll be all," Karen nodded with finality. "All right, Leland," she glanced at her former husband by the coffee table, "Might as well get you next."

"If you say so," Stottlemeyer said with a forced smile. Adrian heard him whisper in Disher's ear, "Back me up if things go south," before he took his seat on the sofa. "OK, Leland J. Stottlemeyer, Captain, San Francisco Police, Homicide Division," she rambled out an introduction, her words stiff and hollow, devoid of feeling, "What would you say your favorite memory of working with Adrian Monk is?"

"My favorite memory?" Stottlemeyer thought hard, "My favorite, I guess, would have to be...there was this one time, you've probably seen in on the air, where we were following..." his gaze looked up above the camera, "...where we were following a certain shooter whom for a moment I thought was a union picket jumper. Monk taught me a rather valuable lesson that day about thinking things out thoroughly before jumping. True, I haven't always abided by that principle in the time since, but I don't think any of us are perfect, am I right?"

"And you'll stand by that as your favorite memory of working with him?" her voice got noticeably sharper; Adrian could tell she was picking up on what the captain was trying to say.

"Yes, I'm going to stand by that," Stottlemeyer's voice got sharper as well, "In fact, for everyone listening to this, I'd say that's a pretty good lesson we all have to pick up on at some point or another, not to leap to conclusions or act without thinking."

"Even though you just admitted you don't follow your own example, _Captain!?"_ there was open contempt in her voice now.

"Hey, I just said it's hard to follow perfect examples," Stottlemeyer rose to his feet despite Adrian's frantic waving at him to be careful, his face contorting with rage, "It's just too bad," he dug out his stress yo-yo and started bouncing it, "Some people out there never want to admit they're wrong and keep on heaping their problems on everyone else."

"Which of course some people may just say about you!" she snapped, "And I think you know who I mean, right _Captain!?"_

Enraged, Stottlemeyer opened his mouth to rip his ex-wife a big one, but mercifully, the wail of sirens cut off whatever he may have been planning to say. "What's all that?" Adrian rushed to the porch's window. The noise was definitely getting louder. Sure enough, a pair of marked cruisers with the words _Breckman Lake P.D._ emblazoned on the sides pulled up right next door at the Lewises. Concerned, the detective rushed out the door and hustled over to the officers climbing out of the cruisers. "What's, what's going on here?" he asked the man wearing the sheriff's badge.

"Oh, so you're right over there, Monk?" the sheriff seemed a bit surprised, "They didn't exactly tell us where you'd be staying. We got a call about some dead bodies floating around...oh, there they are now."

Adrian turned and saw exactly what was going on: the Lewises were floating face down in the lake near their own dock, next to their overturned rowboat. Somehow, the detective thought to himself as he followed the officers down to the lake, it had seemed to be asking too much to get away from murder for the week.


	5. Monkstock is Open for Business

"So it's all for real, what he does?" the sheriff asked Adrian's associates, having joined him on the Lewises' property, as he watched the detective pace hesitantly on the pier--the water having a clear effect on his concentration, "All that...?"

"As real as it gets," the captain said, "I guess you know who we all are, right; everyone who's been conscious for the last six years pretty much does."

"Indeed I do. Gavin Wallace, Sheriff for Breckman Lake," he shook Stottlemeyer's hand, "You won't believe what I've had to go through for security once we've heard you folks were coming to my quiet little town, making sure everyone packed in at the fairgrounds behave themselves, and having a drive-by of this place by your producer's orders to make sure no one bothers you while you're here. Incidentally, if you ever do need our help, my number's 555-8595."

"Thanks, but don't expect our call unless it's a dire emergency," Stottlemeyer said firmly, "Not that we don't trust you yet, but we're just a little careful these days after the last small town sheriff we came across helped try to kill us."

"Well, trust me, you don't have to worry about that from me," Wallace reassured him, "The worst things that ever happen around here are occasional petty thefts; like last week, when all the nails got cleaned out of the hardware store for some reason, followed by a load of copper wiring right...why are you taping all this!?" he demanded to Karen, who was thrusting her camera right in his face.

"We hired out for a documentary on everything that's slated for this week. Um, not that I'm complaining, Mrs. Marshall," Dwight looked into Karen's eyes, disapproving, "But are you really sure we want to film this? I got to know the victims here pretty well over the last couple of days; to glamorize their deaths would come off a bit, I don't know, insensitive if you ask me."

"You wanted the best documentary possible, Dwight, and showing Monk in action is the best way I can think of as a director to get it," Karen essentially brushed him off, prompting her ex-husband to roll his eyes in disgust. Adrian sauntered over towards them, clearly glad to get off the dock. "OK then, Monk, let's see if we match up here," Wallace pulled out his notepad, "This seems pretty cut-and-dry if you asked me; looks like they went out for a cruise on the lake last night, tipped over, and drowned."

"Well, you're way off," Adrian shook his head, "They were murdered, actually."

"Huh?" the sheriff looked back and forth between the still overturned boat on the lake and his notes, "How? They were floating face down when their housekeeper came in fifteen minutes ago and found them; it's as clear a drowning as I can tell."

"The only thing is, if this was an accidental drowning, then why are their necks broken?" Adrian pointed at red marks on the Lewises' necks as the medics wheeled them past towards the ambulance, "This was no boating accident; this was premeditated murder. The killer broke their necks, then took the boat out, tipped it over, and swam back to shore to make it look like an accident."

"Hold on," Wallace held up his hand at the medics. "Amazing," he exclaimed, staring at the wounds, "How did we miss that?"

"Hey sheriff, look at this," a deputy called from the dock. He and another officer dragged out a pair of large rocks wrapped in rope from the water underneath the dock. "It makes sense," Adrian said in satisfaction as he trudged over to examine the new evidence closely, "The killer didn't want them to be found; he was going to send them to the bottom of the lake after he killed them, but somehow he didn't have time or was interrupted somehow. And look at that, too."

"Look at what?" Wallace squinted at the rocks, trying to decipher what was being presented to him before Adrian told him.

"They're cut into complete, perfect circles," Adrian pointed at the rocks, "No rough edges whatsoever. Exactly the type of rocks I'd like to use if I were the killer and wanted..."

"And the point being, Mr. Monk?" the sheriff pressed.

Adrian looked at him with a slightly bemused expression, "I think our killer, Sheriff, has OCD too," he told him.

* * *

"So I guess then we're up against the anti-Monk, huh Mr. Monk?" Becky joked with him back on the patio as she continued painting the picture from earlier in the morning.

"The what?" the detective frowned, busy wiping down the dining table for the fourth time that afternoon.

"Well, that's just what I think it seems like," she told him, adding color to Dr. Bell's shirt, "Since he seems to have at least the same pattern of habits you do, it makes sense to call him the Anti-Monk."

"And unfortunately we've probably attracted everyone with OCD west of the Great Plains here this week," the detective rued, finally stepping away from the table, "So until I get more clues, it could be any one of them. And you're going outside the lines."

"Not as far as I can tell," she frowned at the canvas.

"Let me take a closer look," he strode forward, "Oh this, this isn't going to work. You're way outside the lines here in at least ten places. Better..."

"Hey," Wendy stuck her head through the patio door, "We're just about ready to head into town, so you two better get ready. Oh that's coming great," she commended Becky, nodding in satisfaction at the painting, "You'll be done in no time at this rate."

"Yeah, I kind of am hoping to at least get started with another one before we're all done," Becky protectively picked up the easel with the painting still on it, "I'd really like to put it in our room, though, until we get back, just to be on the safe side, you know."

Adrian couldn't help noticing her staring hesitantly at him while she said this. Regardless, he had to prepare himself, since it would probably be dark by the time they'd get back. He hustled to his room and dug a pair of flashlights, a whistle, and a flare gun from a trunk; he wanted to take no chance of getting lost on the trail after dark. He noticed Becky firmly locking the door to the room all the girls were sharing as he headed downstairs, as if she didn't trust him for some reason to keep away from her masterpiece. Everyone else was gathered in the den, where it appeared, unfortunately, that Tommy was putting his foot down again. "...care what you say or offer, I am not going!" he roared defiantly at Christie. The sergeant's eyes were starting to well up. "Tommy please, I know I'm not your father, I don't want to be your father..." he tried to reason with the boy.

"That's right, you're not my father," Tommy folded his arms across his chest, not budging an inch, "And I'm not going anywhere with you."

"But Tommy, we're going to have lots of fun over at the festival," Julie put her arm around him, "Surely you don't want to miss that, do you?"

"Well..." his veneer started to crack.

"I didn't think so," she continued, "If you're not comfortable with Mr. Christie right now, you can come with some of us if you want."

"Indeed she has a point, child," Archbishop Fitzwater bent down to Tommy's level, "Most of us would very much miss you if you chose to stay behind here, wouldn't we, Mr. Monk?" he glanced up at the detective, who nodded firmly.

"That's right, go on, you'll thank us later," Kight piped up from the couch, shooting the detective another knowing glance over having used his catchphrase. Tommy sighed in resignation. "All right," he surrendered, "But I decide who to go with when we get there, all right!?"

"Very clearly," the archbishop patted him on the head, "And we will respect whatever you choose."

"Let's party, then," a giddy Jack Jr. took Ambrose's hand and eagerly dragged him out the door. "I, uh, I did tell you going outside for long periods isn't my cup of tea, Jack?" the instruction manual writer asked his half brother with a nervous gulp.

"Brother, you are going to have some fun tonight, and I will be proud to share it with you," Jack Jr. encouraged him.

"But do not exploit him in any way, shape, or form, buster," their father warned him. Adrian filed out after everyone else. "You, you sure you don't want to come?" he asked the Kights, settling onto a sofa to watch some television.

"It's your party, Mr. Monk," Elizabeth reassured him, "Don't worry about us. We'll have the light on for you when you get back. But so you know, we'll probably have the door locked, just in case whoever did in George and Harriet earlier comes lurking around, so knock when you're back."

"We'll, we'll knock six times of the same frequency and duration. Have a nice evening, then," the detective bid them farewell as he followed the rest of his party up the now familiar trail towards town. His first sight of the fairgrounds once they were out of the woods deeply troubled him: far too many people were crowded into the facility ahead of them. "Um, shouldn't, shouldn't we ask some of those people to perhaps come back another night?" he asked out loud.

"For once we're in agreement," Peggy looked repulsed herself, "Some of them look like they crawled up out of a storm drain."

Natalie growled in frustration at her mother's continued crassness. "Well, actually, we don't have to go in the main gate," Dwight gestured for everyone to follow him, "Tim and I kind of had a feeling all of you might be crushed if you went in there, so we made arrangements for you to use the service entrance the vendors and entertainers use to get in."

"Sounds good," Adrian felt relieved he wouldn't have to squeeze past a whole load of people. Indeed, the service entrance was much calmer, with only a pair of guards on duty to keep trespassers out--and from what Adrian could see, no one was even milling around in the immediate area. "Good, you're here," one of them greeted the detective cordially, "Ms. Maven said to keep a guard on you while you're here so you don't get manhandled."

"Let her know we're here," Dwight told him as the gate electronically swung open and the spare guard in question--a large hulking man--stepped out of the both and stood next to Adrian, making the detective grimace from the tattoo on his face.

"Sure thing," the guard extended his arm out the window, "Here's maps for all of you. It's about..." he glanced at his watch, "...fifteen minutes to the opening ceremonies, so try and be around the stage by that time. They'd like as many of you as possible to give an opening remark or two."

"Gotcha. Have a nice evening," Dwight waved him goodbye as the last of the group came through the gate. "Well, I guess you can all go your own ways from here," he told the others, "Like he said, we'll meet up in fifteen minutes or so."

"Right, see you then," Dr. Bell sauntered off in the direction of the whip. The rest of the group slowly started breaking up. Adrian stared intently at the map, trying to figure out where to go first. "So Tommy, are you coming with us then?" he heard Julie ask the boy gently.

"Uh...actually, I think I'll go with him," the detective glanced up from the map to see him pointing at the archbishop, "Just promise me, mister, you won't try to..."

"Oh you don't need to worry, my son," Fitzwater chuckled, "I'm not _that_ kind of priest. In fact, I discourage any that would try such a terrible thing. Very well then, you lead the way. Whatever you wish, that's where we'll go."

Tommy headed off to the south, towards what appeared to be the big slide. "Oh well," Julie mumbled out loud, "How about the roller coaster then?" she asked the other adolescents.

"Yeah, that looks neat," Becky was grinning to see the riders on it currently in the distance doing three consecutive upside-down loops (making Adrian feel like throwing up just think about it). They all eagerly ran off in that direction. "The Ferris wheel looks pretty empty," Adrian heard Jonathan say to Gail as his gaze returned to the map, "Care for a ride?"

"Well, um...I'm not...it's not that I don't trust you, but..."

"You're worried I'm going to set you up, is that it?" he asked, "Your sister told me about how hard things have been for you lately. I'm sorry they have been so, but I promise you I'm not the type of person that would do what that last man did. Trust me."

"Well...OK then," Adrian could practically hear Gail smile. He glanced up again once more and noticed definite concerned and even disapproving looks on the Davenports' faces as they watched their son walk away with his "date." "Well, what looks good enough to try first?" Bobby asked his wife, glancing over the map.

"Probably the episode screenings in the convention center," she sighed, frustrated, "Everything else is bound to be havens for riff-raffs."

"The episode screenings it is, then," he nodded, not looking all too pleased about it, though. They trudged off, leaving only Troy left. The boy was simply standing around, disinterested in everything. "You, uh, want to come with me then, Troy?" the detective asked him.

"I guess so," Troy seemed resigned to it, "Is there anything you'd want to try that won't send you into fits?"

"Well," Adrian scanned the map yet again, seeing well that Troy had a point, as many of the rides went too fast or up in the air. "Bumper cars?" he posed.

"Fair enough," Troy fell into line behind him and the guard as they stepped out onto the main midway--arranged just as Marci had said into nice even rows, for which Adrian couldn't thank her enough. "There he is!" came an excited shout from over at the Skee-Ball building, and the next thing the detective knew, a surge of people was coming towards him and Troy. Two additional guards hastily rushed over and formed a protective barrier among around them. "Thank you, gentlemen," Adrian said to them, wincing again to see one had his ears pierced with three earrings apiece. He took note of several of the kiosks he passed; they were selling not only show DVDs, but also mugs with the show's logo on them, T-shirts, caps, his father's books in the official series (why he'd chosen the name Lee Goldberg as a pseudonym he had no idea, for the name rang no bells for him at all), and banners listing every single one of his phobias. He was amazed just how freely information flowed in the Internet age, and that people could obsess about every detail connected with him as much if not more so than Marci.

The line to the bumper cars wasn't that long when they reached it. And Adrian immediately noticed not one but two familiar faces ahead of them, and they promptly noticed him too. "Oh my God, Adrian!" an ecstatic Monica Waters bounded down the line to embrace him, "I was hoping we'd run into you here."

"Same here," Michele Rivas stepped past her to do the same, "We've ended up sharing a room at the motel, Adrian; oh the stories some of the other people tell us about what you've done since I last saw you..."

"Who, who else is there?" Adrian dug out a wipe and ran it all over his tuxedo just to be sure, "I know Captain Albright's staying there..."

"Oh yeah, we met him at check-in," Michele nodded, "Nice guy. It must have been hard for Natalie to choose between him and her husband, but from what I hear of Mitch Teeger, she made the right choice."

"We're right across the hall from Dianne Brooks and Sherry Judd; they're also rooming together," Monica explained, "They should be around here somewhere. So you were 'Captain Cool' in college, huh?"

"Uh, yes, and really, I'm surprised people even remember that moniker after all these years," Adrian shuffled about uncomfortably, "I'd, um, like you to meet Troy; he's Dr. Kroger's son, and he'll be representing his father for the festival."

"I'm sorry about what happened to him," Monica told Troy sympathetically, "I hope it wasn't too devastating for you."

"Oh, I'm over it now. Have to move forward," Troy said quickly and emphatically (Adrian, though, thought he saw the boy's eyes moisten a bit; perhaps it wasn't as easy for him to move on, he figured).

There came a pushing in the line behind them. "Max," the detective noticed him, "You're not going with the others?"

"Oh, I decided to take on the roller coaster on my own time," Max said quickly himself.

"Your brother coming too?" Troy looked back in the line, but there was no sign of Jared.

"Nope, went off to look for his professor," Max rolled his eyes, "The way he speaks so highly about the guy, you'd think he was our real father. Ever since he came back home for this, it's been Professor Atherton this and Professor Atherton that. And all the guy's really done worth noting is write an episode guide for your show that pretty much anyone with a modem and half a brain can do if they wanted to, Mr. Monk."

The line started moving before Adrian could answer. He made a beeline for a red bumper car all by itself on the far side of the circuit. He wiped down the steering wheel, seat, and seatbelt (although the wipe got stuck in the elastic, forcing him to use a whole fistful for the job), climbed in, and strapped himself in. When the power came on, he turned the wheel hard, and found himself going abruptly in circles. There was a hard jolt as another rider crashed into him from behind. "Hey, show some decency for other drivers on the course here!" he shouted, spinning the wheel again. Finally he got it straightened out but had just barely begun going in the right direction than Michele slammed into him from the side with an excited laugh. "Hey!" he shouted again, "I thought we were supposed to be friends and all that!?"

Michele merely laughed again as she turned to the right to hit another driver. Adrian spun hard to get back on track and was nailed by two other riders. Seconds later Max also hit him hard, pinning him to the wall. He was still spinning wildly in circles trying to get out of there where the ride shut down. "I really, really, really don't see how anyone could consider that any fun," he griped to everyone he knew as they walked out the exit.

"That's because I think you're clinically adverse to fun," Troy mumbled softly. "Ah," he noticed the sign by a funhouse type attraction next to the bumper cars, "'Take trip through the depths of fear and see if you can conquer Monk's worst nightmares,'" he read off the placard out front, "Want to try that?" he offered Max.

"Sure thing," the younger boy raced him to the line. Adrian shook his head as he glanced up at the marquee. "Phobiatasia," he muttered to Monica and Michele, "And the producers are promoting a positive image of me here!?"

"I don't find anything wrong with it," Michele seemed nonplussed, "It gives riders a positive experience, I think, to know they can conquer fears as much as you can."

"Hurry, hurry, hurry, step right up and test your throwing skills," shouted a barker at a stand nearby, "Well, Mr. Monk, the star of the show, come on up and take a chance for free. Come on now, don't be shy."

"Um, well," Adrian mumbled as the women eagerly pushed him up to the stand. He glanced hesitantly at the stack of milk bottles set up in front of him. "Here's, here's the thing," he told the barker, "If I try this, can't we change the rules a bit? Namely, give me the prize for NOT knocking over the bottles? I think that should be more the focus here."

"Sorry, rules are rules," the barker handed him a trio of baseballs, "Let's see what you've got, Mr. Monk."

Sighing, Adrian wiped down each ball. He hefted the first one, stared intently at the stack of bottles and started to throw--and found he didn't have it in himself to do it, and thus flung the ball high in the air out of the stand. "OK, one down, two to go," the barker announced, perplexed. Adrian threw the second one to the floor on purpose. One more and he'd be free. Unfortunately, his aim on the last throw was a little too good, and the ball knocked the stack clean over. "Oh my God, oh my God!" he shrieked as loud applause broke out from the bystanders who'd gathered to observe, 'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry...!"

"And you win the grand prize! Here you go!" the barker handed the detective an oversized doll of himself. While Adrian was appreciative that whoever designed it had taken great painstaking time to accurately recreate his face for the doll, he was horrified by what he'd done. Handing the doll to Monica, he vaulted over the stand, rushed to the bottles where they lay, and desperately started re-stacking them. Then took them down again and re-stacked them again when he noticed he hadn't done it quite right. Then again. And again.

"There you are, Mr. Monk," Marci came rushing up, a headset around her ears, "Come on, we're about to get started. Thanks guys, we'll call you again when we need you," she told the guards. Take the detective's wrist, she started dragging him away. Adrian took the doll back from Monica. "Nice, nice to see you again," he told the women in parting.

The crowds were beginning to converge around the stage as Marci led him through a side entrance to the staging area behind it. There he saw the captain and Jared talking with a distinguished looking man. "Adrian Monk, allow me to introduce Dr. Mark Atherton, author of _Obsessive Love: Why America Fell for Adrian Monk_," she told him, "He was chosen to be master of ceremonies this week."

"So, Adrian Monk, we meet at last," Atherton shook the detective's hand, "I've watched from the beginning, and after Jared here began filling me in on the rest of the information they didn't show on the air," he patted his pupil on the shoulder, "I felt compelled to write a book, and it took off beyond my wildest dreams."

"And let me say congratulations, Professor," Adrian thanked him, digging out a wipe, "What do you teach, exactly?"

"Dr. Atherton teaches sociology and specializes in mental disorders," Jared informed him, "And he does it well; I've learned more from him than I ever did in grade school."

"And for that I can't thank you enough, Professor," Stottlemeyer commended him, "His mother and I usually had to coerce him to do his homework all the time before."

"OK, it's the top of the hour; you're on, Professor," Marci waved him onto the stage, "Start this week with a bang."

"You've got it," Atherton said slyly as he bounded up the stairs and out onto the stage. "Good evening, Breckman Lake," he told the crowd, which cheered loudly, "You may know me; if not, I'm Mark Atherton, and you've probably read my book about our very own Detective Adrian Monk. And I welcome all of you to Monkstock, the one-stop get-together for everyone who loves the television show about our favorite crime fighter."

The cheer that rose up was almost deafening, prompting Adrian to slam both hands over his ears until it died down. "And now," Atherton said gaily, "Put your hands together for the man of the hour, the one, the only, the real Adrian Monk!"

The roar that broke out now was similar to that of a rocket launching. Adrian's knees felt like jelly, and thus Stottlemeyer and Jared had to push him out onto the stage. The detective stared numbly at the hundreds, maybe thousands of people stretched out before him. He could probably only hold out for a minute or so before he'd have to get off the stage. "Hel--Hello," he said weakly into the microphone, but even this innocuous statement sent up a thundering roar, "I, uh, we'd all, like to thank you for coming to the first annual Monkstock festival in my honor, and I hope each and every one of you will remember to clean up this area after you're ready to leave for the night. Um, that, that should do it, so I'm going to turn it over now to a good friend of mine, you all know him, Captain Leland Stottlemeyer."

He desperately waved his superior out of stage, slamming his hands over his ears as a loud chant of, "CAPTAIN, CAPTAIN, CAPTAIN!!!" broke out. He rushed to the back of the stage and stared at the floor to avoid looking at the crowd. "Thank you," the captain greeted the gathered throngs before him, "Like the professor here said, I'd like to thank you all for coming here to pay tribute to a good friend of mine--one of the best friends anyone could ask for, really--Adrian Monk," he pulled the detective towards the front of the stage again despite Adrian efforts to get away and patted him on the shoulder, "And you're right to come; Monk deserves tribute like no one else. There've been times as you've no doubt seen that I'd've loved to wring his neck, but he's like a brother to me despite all that, and I really can't imagine life without him. Nevertheless," his tone abruptly got more solemn, "I think that in the near future, our relationship might change a little bit, away from a professional one. Therefore, while I'm here and you're listening, I think you should all be the first to know that I have decided to retire from the San Francisco Police Department, effective one year from now."

A few gasps and a loud murmuring swept through the crowd. Adrian himself almost fell over in surprise. "Now, I know this is probably going to come as a bit of a surprise," Stottlemeyer held up his hands to quiet everyone down, "Most of you have probably become so accustomed to seeing me in my familiar capacity that you can't imagine me anywhere else. I understand; having spent so much time with Monk, I know how people are hard to accept change sometimes. And it should be hard on me for a while too. But I think, after thirty-plus years on the force, it's time for me to step aside and take life a little slower now. I can, though, tell you that the change won't be as hard as you might think. I have requested to my superiors that our very own Lieutenant Randy Disher succeed me as captain when I do retire; he's shown himself in the years that I've known him to be a good cop, if somewhat unorthodox, and I feel he is ready for a promotion to a higher post. So I'd like all of you at this time to give a big hand to the probably soon to be Captain Randall P. Disher. Randy, where are you?"

He scanned the crowd. If Disher was there, however, he made no sign to be recognized. "Well, maybe he'll show up at some point," the captain shrugged, "But again, I thank you all for coming, and I thank any of you who may have mailed me one of the enormous amount of supportive fan letters I've received over the years, and I hope you enjoy the festival this week as much as we probably will."

He took a bow as he got a standing ovation. "Thank you Captain," Atherton commended him, "I'm sure we'll all miss you when you retire. It is hard to imagine Monk's world without you as a core member. We all have our favorite moments with the two of your together, like this for instance."

He turned to the large screen behind the stage, nicely set up between the metal scaffolding with the lights for the bands that would play later on. A snippet of footage from the episode detailing the time the captain had momentarily moved in with Adrian played--specifically showing when Stottlemeyer, finally reaching the breaking point when Adrian had re-vacuumed the rug "properly," had blown a fuse and ranted that he was going to have Trudy canonized for her ability to somehow put up with him. The audience cracked up at his tirade (although Adrian was beginning to suspect they'd react similarly to anything about him). "Yep, that was good," Atherton was chuckling himself, "Then again, who can also remember this golden moment?"

The next scene came from the time Adrian and his inner circle had been forced into witness protection, showing the detective's effort to keep Stottlemeyer's foot from disturbing him, as it had been doing at the time. Stottlemeyer, who'd been upset at the time when he'd fallen off the bed and had been left hanging in the air after the detective had secured his foot to the bedpost, was now laughing hard as well. Glancing back to the stage, he saw both assistants now backstage, talking to Marci. They looked out of breath, he thought, as if they'd been running hard to get to the stage. Marci waved at Atherton as the clip from the episode ended and pointed at the new arrivals. "OK, are you ready for another treat?" the professor asked the crowd, "We've got one more person to say hello to tonight; I think you all know who it is, don't you? That's right, give it up for the lady who knows how to keep our hero feeling good, the one and only Natalie Teeger!"

Another deafening applause rose up. Grimacing in discomfort, Adrian turned to watch Natalie bound on stage, her face a mixture of nervousness and delight. Surpringly, though, he saw Marci step right in Sharona's path when the latter tried to follow her successor on stage and pushed her back while mouthing what were clearly some very harsh words. Clearly incensed by whatever she was being told, Sharona started yelling right back and tried to push past Marci. His attention was diverted back to the front of the stage, though, as Natalie reached the microphone. "Hello Breckman Lake," she greeted everyone, letting an excited gasp come out as well, "Wow, I never expected that many of you might show up for this. Well, the more the merrier I always say. We're all glad you care for Adrian Monk, because we all do too, and this festival couldn't have happened to a nicer person. My..." she stopped to let another burst of applause die down, "...my friends here pretty much covered everything of note to say, so enjoy the week, and maybe we'll get to meet personally at some point."

Another applause exploded. "The real life Natalie Teeger, folks," Atherton told the assembled throngs, "I'm going to step out for a little while while now; in the meantime, enjoy some of the best musical acts we can find, starting with a very successful performer you've seen our hero here help this very season; give it up for MurdeRuss, ladies and gentlemen."

A somewhat lesser applause rang out as the famous rapper charged onto the stage with his band in tow, and gave a deep bow to the crowd. "Hey, hey, Mr. Monk, don't be going no place just yet," he took the detective's arm as he tried to follow his assistant and the captain back off stage, "Since this is your special week, I'd like to be the first to present you with a token of my appreciation," he gestured for one of his posse to bring something forward, "Because we are homies, I'm going to let you have an original pressing of my soon to be legendary new album, 'Decapitation Station,' featuring three unreleased tracks that won't be on the commercial release: 'Hail of Lead,' 'Kill My Lawyer,' and 'Chainsaw to the Skull!'"

"Thank, thank you, Russell; just what I always wanted, really," Adrian forced a happy face as he took the CD, trying to think how to get rid of it as he had the last one he'd gotten from MurdeRuss the other Christmas. His first impulse would be to let Julie have it since she'd often stated she liked MurdeRuss's music, but since Natalie steadfastly forbid it, that was out of the question.

"Everybody give it up one more time for Adrian Monk!" MurdeRuss yelled to the audience, who let out a carnal cheer that led the detective to slap both hands over his ears in discomfort again. "He's the whitest guy out there, but we wouldn't have him any other way, would we!?" the rapper continued shouting nearly at the top of his lungs, "And speaking of my new album, Monkstock, let's get down with the Number One hit single from Decapatation Station; the DJs all love it, and the critics for once do too; put your hands together for the future song of the year, 'Punching Granny's Lights Out!'"

Even more loud cheers rang out as an overly loud rap beat started up. Adrian quickly shuffled off the stage; having seen how crazy MurdeRuss's concerts could be on TV, he didn't want to be in the middle of one if strange things started happening; besides, some of the lyrics the rapper was now belting out were making him uncomfortable.

Natalie and the captain were waiting with Marci for him backstage, but Sharona had already left, and Jared and Atherton were gone now too. "Not bad at all, Adrian," Marci commended him.

"We, we do have to work on noise control out there," Adrian could still hear the loud ringing in his ears, "Noise is pollution after all. Where's...?"

"Oh, don't worry too much about scary Sharona," Marci scoffed, "I pointed out she wasn't slated to speak up there tonight, and eventually she conceded and went back to the midway."

"Actually, Marci, it looked like a little more than that," Adrian told her, "I have to ask, are you holding something against her?"

"Well, let me ask you in return, Adrian, why aren't you holding something against her yourself?" Marci stared him down, "I thought you wouldn't be as accommodating to a traitor."

"She's not a traitor," Natalie spoke up strongly, "She only followed her heart. You don't have to like it, but at least respect her. If she wants to be a part of this festival, let her."

"Well, if you insist, but I think ninety percent of the people out there think the same way I do about what she really is," Marci shrugged.

"So, anyway, do you need us for anything else here on stage tonight?" Stottlemeyer asked her.

"Nope," the coordinator said, "You can go do whatever you want again."

"OK then; Monk, Jared went on the roller coaster, the professor gave him a ticket for it, he told me, so I'm going to go wait for him there," the captain told him, "I suppose that's off your to-do list at the moment, right?"

Adrian nodded emphatically. "Thought so," Stottlemeyer wasn't surprised, "See you around, then."

"Sounds good. Mr. Monk, want to try the rocket ride?" Natalie pressed him, "You can even make sure it doesn't go up at all; they have a control bar that..."

"Uh, no, no thank you, I'll just, uh, walk around a little bit, where it's a lot, lot quieter," Adrian said quickly. "Oh, and," he called to his assistant as she started to leave, "I'm, um, a little surprised you weren't here at the beginning when they started the intros."

"Oh, well, I ran into Steve again, and we took a ride on the Ferris wheel," she told him, "We had a bit to talk about, actually. It took a little too long to get back down to the ground. You're not going to dock me pay for it, are you?"

"No, no, my life wasn't in dire jeopardy, so no need to," he said, "Well, see you around, then, I guess."

He stuck his head out the side door once Natalie had left and glanced around to make sure no one was waiting for him to mob him. Only about a dozen people or so were around, though, and none of them seemed to notice him. He did spot his father watching MurdeRuss nearby, though. "Ah, there you are, Adrian," the former trucker greeted him when he approached, "Nice speech up there. Maybe next time invite me along, though; it looked like you might have needed an extra support there."

"Well crowds, Dad, you know they're not my thing, really," Adrian told him, "I guess maybe we should..."

But Jack was no longer listening. He gaze had fallen on a knot of people gathered around a makeshift table set up near the balloon popping booth. "Oh damn it!" he growled, rushing towards it with Adrian in tow. The detective had a feeling he wasn't going to like what was happening, and he was right: Jack Jr. was seated behind a table with four overturned coffee mugs with the show's logo on it emblazoned on them. "Thank you for signing up to play Jack's Shell Game Jam," he was eagerly telling the crowd gathered in front of him, "Those of you who paid for tickets step forward now please and hand them to my handsome assistant the Astounding Ambrose."

Looking like he wasn't too keen on the whole matter, Ambrose took the tickets from five contestants and slid them into an oversized Coke bottle set up on the edge of the table. "So now let's put the ball in play and mix things up a little," Jack Jr. slid a golf ball under the second mug from the left and quickly mixed all of them around as fast as he could. "There we are," he proclaimed when he was finished, "You there, I believe you drew ticket #1," he addressed an African-American woman standing near the front of the line, "Take your best guess; which one is the ball under?"

"Don't bother answering," Jack Sr. stepped in front of her. "Everyone, don't bother taking a guess on this so-called game," he told the crowd, "This man is bamboozling you all; he put the ball in his pocket when he mixed the cups."

"Sorry mister, whomever you may be," Jack Jr. flashed him a harsh glare, "But I think you've seen too many TV shows where..."

"Have I!?" Jack Sr. abruptly shoved his hand into his youngest son's shirt pocket and extracted the ball. "See for yourselves, folks," he held it up for everyone to see, "Don't pay heed to anything this man told you; he's been pulling this very con since he was thirteen." He rounded back on Jack Jr. "Give them their money back, now."

"Why!? They paid me of their own free accord; I shouldn't have to...!"

"I said right now," Jack Sr. glared harshly at him. When Jack Jr. did nothing, the former trucker physically groped into his son's pockets, extracted the money, and tossed it towards the crowd. "Pick up whatever's yours, folks," he told them, "There's plenty of other reputable games here for you to try out. Spread the word, too, so others won't get suckered either."

"You know I was really turning a profit there, Dad!" Jack Jr. upbraided him as the disgusted crowd shuffled away.

"And what did I say about no con artistry!?" Jack Sr. glowered back, "Times are tough enough for people these days without you robbing them blind! So you pull a stunt like this again, and I call the warden and have you carted right back to jail, buster!"

"I told him it wasn't right, Dad," Ambrose whimpered, looking guilty, "I'm sorry if I let you down."

"Oh don't blame you, Ambrose," Jack Sr. patted him on the shoulder, "I am, though, worried about what influence this hustler here," he glowered at his youngest son again, "might have on you if you're not careful. Look at this: twenty bucks just for a ticket!?" he picked up a sign set on on the far side of the table announcing the prices for the game, "That's highway robbery no matter how you slice it! I can't believe...!"

"Hey you guys," Disher came huffing up, sweat pouring down his face, "Did I miss anything?"

"Oh, nothing much, Randy, except the captain's going to retire and named you as his successor," Adrian raised his eyebrows, "Where have you been all this time?"

"Uh...the bathroom," Disher said quickly, "I really, really, really had to go."

"Oh well," Jack Sr. shrugged, looking like he didn't entirely buy it, "Maybe somebody caught it on tape for you. I wouldn't," he warned the lieutenant as he dug out his wallet to try Jack Jr.'s game, "I think you of all people would know not to trust anything he sets up."

* * *

"I can't believe you actually had the gall to ruin me right when I was in the middle of a big pay day!" Jack Jr. was still griping to his father as the group trudged back through the woods after the festival.

"Ruin you? When you were ruining average everyday people? Don't make me laugh," Jack Sr. wasn't buying it, "The rigged shell game wasn't funny when you were thirteen, and it sure as hell isn't funny now with higher stakes. I've said it before, and I'll say it again in the hopes your thick head can absorb it: you want a big pay day, you work hard for thirty or forty years and earn it the honest way, like I did."

"Yeah, sure, you've shown yourself to be really honest," Sharona grumbled from the back of the line. She had been in a very bitter mood since Adrian had come back across her at the side entrance at closing time, and he had a pretty good reason why. "Um, Sharona," he spoke up, "If, um, you have any trouble with Marci down the line like..."

"Don't say her name, Adrian," the nurse growled, "If I hear that...that...stupid ape's name one more time, I'm going to start smashing everything in sight. If she thinks she can block me out of this week, she's got something else coming. I am not a deserter no matter what she thinks."

"And we know that too," Natalie put an arm around her, "We'll vouch for you if anyone else tries to push you aside."

"Thank you," her predecessor smiled at him, "But I don't want to hear the name Marci Maven again, and I hope that before the week's over, she comes down with gout, herpes, ringworm, and the worst case of..."

"Sharona, kids," Adrian gestured at them in front of her, having a very good idea what was going to come out next. "Um, Tommy," he bent down over the boy, "Did you, uh, enjoy the night in the end?"

But Tommy turned away from him without saying a word. "Yes, he did, by and large," Archbishop Fitzwater told him, "We tried the carousel, motorcycles, Himalaya, and the dodge cars. And I bought him an ice cream, and he enjoyed it, didn't you, child?"

Tommy managed a soft nod, then kicked at the dirt, bored. "Uh, Captain," Disher walked up alongside him as they started the last hill before the cabin would come into sight, "They've told me what you said earlier on stage, and, well, sir, I'm flattered, really I am. So you really think I...?"

Stottlemeyer stopped and turned to face his adjutant. "Randy, you're a good cop," he said with no small amount of pride, "Sometimes you're a little out there--OK, most of the time you're REALLY out there--but your heart's in the right place, and you've earned a promotion. And I'm pretty sure you'll continue to serve well when you take over as captain a year from now."

"And you're, you're absolutely sure you want to step away, Captain?" Adrian asked him, a lingering pit in his stomach at the prospect of professional life without his longtime associate.

"Yeah Monk, I've thought good and hard about it, and I think it's just time to hang it up," Stottlemeyer nodded, "But like I said, it's been one hell of a ride with you, and I'm proud to have known you and worked with you. And hey, it doesn't mean we can't be friends anymore, Monk; you're more than welcome to stop by my place any time. But just do me one favor: try and find Trudy's killer before I hang up the badge for good. I want to help share the honor of bringing the perp to justice before I call it a career."

"Well, we'll give it our best and see what happens, Captain," was the best Adrian could come up with. He noticed Ambrose trailing behind everyone else, looking like something very profound was on his mind. He fell back towards his brother. "Is something wrong?" he had to ask.

"At the midway," Ambrose mumbled, looking crestfallen, "I had to get Natalie something, she deserves it, but nothing stood out. Plus, I only brought a dollar with me."

"Only a dollar!? What do you think this is, Ambrose, the Roaring Twenties!?"

"Hey, I didn't know I was going to be outside at all," the instruction manual writer protested, "But the question was, even if I could afford something, what would she like? I don't know how her mind works, even though she comes by every other week for me. She deserves the best, Adrian, and I don't know what the best is."

Adrian glanced down at the plush doll of himself he'd been carrying all night. "May, may I suggest this?" he held it up.

"I guess that'll work just fine," Ambrose eagerly took it and hustled up towards Natalie. Adrian shook his head. Sometimes he could never understand his brother at all. He flicked off the backup flashlight as he crested the hill...

...and came to a stop. Strangely, the cabin was pitch dark ahead of them. "Hold, hold on," he announced out loud, bringing everyone to a stop, "Shouldn't they have the light on for us?"

"Maybe they fell asleep," Disher proposed.

"It is only quarter after ten," Natalie pointed out, "They didn't turn in till quarter after midnight last night." Her brow furled, "Is something wrong, Mr. Monk?"

"There just might be," the detective took long strides towards the cabin. He knocked on the door to the porch in the prearranged manner, but it was still locked and no one answered. "I swore they said they'd have the light on for us when we got back, right?" he asked his father-in-law.

"That was my understanding too, Adrian," Dwight now looked worried. He knocked hard on the window. "Tim, Elizabeth?" he called in, "We're back now. You two in there? Hello?"

There was no answer. "Is there a spare key?" Stottlemeyer asked the producer, looking a little uneasy himself.

"There's one right under...uh oh," Marsha looked equally concerned when she overturned a large stone near the porch, only to reveal a light-colored imprint in the grass where a key had once been. "OK, that's probable cause," Stottlemeyer raised his foot and kicked in the glass on the door to the porch. "Did you really have to do that, Captain?" Adrian grimaced at the broken shards on the ground.

"It's our cabin, Monk; it doesn't matter what we do to it," his superior countered. "You kids, stay out here," he waved the juveniles in the party to step back, "If somebody's in there, we don't want you in harm's way."

He reached through the broken window and unlocked the door. Taking Disher's flashlight, he led the adults into the dark cabin. "Mr. Kight, Mrs. Kight, it's us, we're back," he called out loud, groping along the wall for the light switch, "Mr. Kight, Mrs. Kight, you guys here? Anyone here at all?"

Again nothing but silence could be heard. The lights blazed on as the captain found the switch and flicked it. Adrian was surprised, however, that the cabin looked pretty much exactly as they'd left it, with no clear sign of foul play at all. "I don't get it," he mused, opening his nearest trunk and rifling around for a broom and dustpan to handle the glass shards, "Everything looks normal, but I've got this feeling there's something not right here."

"Maybe we're just reading into this a little too much," Bobby seemed more nonplussed about the situation, "They probably just went out for a walk or got called to friends or something and didn't get back yet."

"Exactly," his wife agreed, "There's probably a note or something similar in the kitchen to explain whatever the story is."

"The answering machine's out there for one thing," Marsha bustled towards the kitchen, "If we're right about that, there'll probably be a..."

And suddenly, without any warning, she let out a bloodcurdling scream the moment she turned to kitchen light on. Adrian rose up in a flash from his trunk and flew like a rocket to his mother-in-law's side in the doorway. What he saw almost made his heart stop: wrapped from head to toe in plastic wrap, the Kights hung from the ceiling fan, dead; stabbed repeatedly, he could tell from the nature of the blood stains visible under the plastic. "My God," his lips barely managed to say, "How...who could have....!?"

Abruptly, another horrified scream broke out behind him--from Sharona. The detective spun and just caught a glimpse of her hand pointing forward before she collapsed to the floor, fainted dead away. While others rushed to attend to her, he spun back to see where she'd been pointing, and grimaced horribly. "No, it can't be," he mumbled numbly, his eyes going wide in shock, "No, it's not possible, it's...Trevor is dead, he's definitely dead this time!"

But there was no refuting the bloody words painted onto the kitchen wall, spelling out the horrifying sentence:

HI SHARONA, I'M BACK. DID YOU MISS ME?


	6. The Return of Charles Kroger

"Take them down now, nice and easy," Sheriff Wallace directed his men as they gently lowered the Kights' bodies from the fan onto stretchers. The sheriff walked over to Adrian in the doorway. "So you just walked in and found them dead, am I right?" he asked the detective.

"Well, the door was locked, we had to break the window to get back in," Adrian told him, "I did sweep up the glass afterwards once the horrible shock of finding them dead wore off."

"Which of course is certainly the one thing they wanted to know," Harold snorted from the doorway, casually inserting a new pane of glass into the broken one's old position on the door (it really didn't surprise Adrian that deep down that his nemesis had brought spares--he would have done the same thing himself had he been able to devise a way to carry them without shattering them, which Harold seemed to have neglected altogether).

"Hey buddy, if you're not going to say anything nice, just keep the big trap shut, all right!?" Jack Sr. upbraided him, "Funny how you weren't upset over all this, I noticed."

"You think I cared for them any more than I care for you!?" was Harold's retort. Jack ignored him and turned to a numb Ambrose next to him. "See Ambrose," he put his arm around his oldest son, "You'd probably be dead too if you hadn't gone out with us. Aren't you glad you took that chance now?"

Ambrose nodded softly, still too overwhelmed by what had happened while he'd been out. He turned towards the sound of a low moan as the medics were finally reviving Sharona with smelling salts. "What..what happened?" she mumbled softly. Then her eyes went wide with realization of what the last thing she'd seen had been. "Oh God, he's back again!" she cried out, "Why won't he just stay dead!?"

"Now we don't know for sure it's him," Natalie tried to strike a calm demeanor as she helped her predecessor to her feet, although Adrian could tell she was deeply rattled herself, "This could be somebody playing a prank or something; it might not be him again."

"Yeah, come on, Sharona, I don't know what this is about, but Trevor is dead for good this time," Stottlemeyer argued, shaking the medics' hands for their effective job bringing her back, "The first officers on the scene at the tower in Gettysburg verified it, I verified it when I got there, Monk verified it when he came to, the medics verified it, the coroner verified it, the undertaker verified it, even his cousin verified it when he went to the funeral, I heard. So this has got to be someone trying to scare us; he's definitely dead now."

"He was definitely dead the last time too!" she wasn't pacified at all.

"Yeah, I know, I know, but this time we actually had the body, and he sure as hell wasn't breathing at all for the twenty minutes or so I looked at it in the morgue," Stottlemeyer pressed, "If it'll make you feel any better, though, I can call the Summit P.D. and see if they can get an order to dig up the body to make absolutely sure."

"I'd really, really appreciate that," she nodded, taking an unnerved glance towards the porch window, where her son could be seen with his face up against the glass, trying to pick up on whatever was being said inside (Stottlemeyer had asked the children to stay outside until everything had returned to relative normal).

"Well, we'll do what we can here too," Wallace offered, "You have a recent picture of your husband in case we come across him?"

"This was the most recent," she dug one out of her purse, "It's about four years old, but the last time we crossed paths, his outward appearance hadn't changed that much."

"Thanks," he took it, "And if it's OK with all of you, I think maybe until we catch whoever did this, I'd better have a patrol circle around here every hour or so just make sure you're still safe."

"If you'd like," Disher nodded. He turned back to the detective, "So, what do you think, Monk?"

The detective was walking around the den, making his familiar hand gestures. "It's too clean in here," he announced.

"Well that's something new for a change," Natalie looked puzzled.

"No, not the way you think," he told her, "The Kights were stabbed to death; they probably wouldn't have died from the first strike; they would have been able to fight back unless the killer hit right through the heart with the first set of blows. This place should be trashed from the fight that should have followed. But it's as clean as if I'd been here for the last few hours. Which has me wondering, Sheriff," he turned to Wallace, "Perhaps the killer here's the same obsessive killer that did the Lewises in earlier today."

"Hmm," Wallace mused, looking around the clean cabin himself, "It does look like the rug's been recently vacuumed, I'll admit."

"I haven't vacuumed since last night; Harold?" Adrian glanced hard at his rival.

"Don't look at me; I'm not your killer!" Harold barked at him, joining the officers in scrubbing the rest of the bloody message off the wall.

"So now the real question is, then, how did the killer or killers get in?" Adrian pointed out next, "There's no sign of the door being broken open," he gestured at the intact latch, "The windows are all intact too. So how did the killers get in if the cabin was essentially a fortress?"

"Well," Disher raised his hand, "There's always the possibility the killer didn't exactly come in to kill them."

"Meaning?" Dr. Bell frowned.

"Astral projection. He stood in the woods and mentally sent his spirit in to kill them. I've read about cases where that happened. Are you having a headache, Captain?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, Randy. Excuse me for a moment, everyone," clutching his temple as if he was having a massive migraine, Stottlemeyer calmly trudged out the door and down to the dock. Moments later, a loud howl rose up over the lake, one that set off every wolf in the area howling in return. "All right then," the captain said, far more calmly, when he returned, "Now that we've discounted that theory, Monk's right; how did the guy get in when everything was locked?"

"The chimney, perhaps," Jack Jr. suggested, looking invigorated by the whole matter, "This guy could have a Santa obsession too, I think; who knows, if Santa is by some chance real, it could be an evil twin of..."

"Don't you start too!" Stottlemeyer groaned loudly, clapping his hands to his temples again, "It's bad enough when he does it!" he gestured at Disher.

"Well, I don't think it was the chimney, Jack," Adrian examined the hearth, "The fire was on most of the night; the ashes are still warm enough to tell us..." he held his palm just above the ashes, which had been suspiciously scooped into a single pile and flattened down as if by a comb, "...that it was still burning at the time they were killed, taking into account the clotting of their blood, and that the killer put it out. But since there's no footprints here or up the chimney itself," he looked up the flu to confirm this, "they didn't leave that way either. No, the answer's something else, something we..."

"BEAR!!!" came Wendy's cry from outside. There came the rushing of footprints as both all the children and the officers outside hastily barrelled inside the cabin. Stottlemeyer seized a poker from the fireplace and rushed to the kitchen window. Adrian saw it too over his shoulder--a moderate-sized grizzly lumbering right for the trash cans. "Maybe if we turn off the lights..." he started proposing.

"No, better if we leave the lights on," Ambrose squeezed in for a look, "Unless this one's a real rogue, it certainly won't come in here; bears tend to run away from humans unless provoked. Say what's it...it's drinking your water, Adrian."

Indeed, the bear had hefted one of the bottles from the can and had twisted off the cap. It lifted it in the air to chug it. "I don't mind," Adrian told him, "That bottle was compromised, so no need to..."

Suddenly the bear let out a low rattle and abruptly toppled over backwards. "Huh?" Adrian frowned. He followed the captain and lieutenant outside towards it. Nonetheless, he stayed close to the doorway while Disher gently poked the bear's chest. "I think it's dead, Captain," he announced.

"Thank you, Dr. McCoy," Stottlemeyer picked up the half empty water bottle from the bear's paw and frowned at it, "What the hell did they put in these things, Monk? I don't think ordinary water could kill like that."

"It must have been some sort of botched bottling procedure; maybe I should switch back to Sierra Springs unless..." Adrian mind clicked back to the kitchen last night. A terrible realization swept over him. "Half the bottles in there had their seals broken," he mused out loud, "If this one was poisoned, it stands to reason...I was supposed to drink this water. Someone...someone wanted to kill me."

"You can't prove that, Monk," the captain didn't readily believe it, "It could have been product tampering like you said, or maybe if it was deliberate, it was meant for someone else."

"But the caps' seals weren't broken when I bought them, Captain," Adrian looked at him solemnly, "Someone tampered with them between then and now. Which means the rest might..."

Knowing what this entailed, he rushed back into the kitchen, grabbed every single bottle of water from the refrigerator, and tossed them all into the garbage can. "Sheriff," he asked Wallace, observing the whole scene from the doorway, "They, they do sell Summit Creek in town, don't they?"

"Since they announced your celebration would be held here, the whole town's been stocking up on it," Wallace nodded, "I could get you more if you'd like. And meanwhile," he rummaged around in the garbage can for one of the bottles with its seal broken, "I can have the lab boys test these contaminated ones to see exactly what was put in here. If we can figure out what the poison is, maybe we can match it with an M.O."

"That, that would be good," Adrian said, "Call us on Natalie's cell; you might have noticed just after we finally did, the killer cut the phone lines before he came in."

"OK. And you know my number if anything else comes up," Wallace nodded, "Hope you can have a reasonable night's sleep after all this."

"We'll, we'll do our best," Adrian told the sheriff as he walked around them towards his cruiser. The detective glanced glumly at the Kights' bodies as they were loaded into the ambulance out front. "She was eight months pregnant," he said ruefully, "Who would be cruel enough to kill someone in that state?"

"In thirty years on the force, Monk, you come to realize that some people are just too twisted to understand," Stottlemeyer said glumly himself, "Too bad they'll never get to know who killed their kid now."

"Hey," Dr. Bell appeared in the doorway, "Are the police leaving now?"

"Looks like it; why?" Disher asked him.

"Your son found this underneath the table," Dr. Bell handed him a piece of paper. Adrian squinted it at, but all it had on it were the letters AVE. "This is Tim's handwriting," he mused, "But what does it mean?"

"Maybe the killer lives on an avenue here in town," Disher theorized, "Or maybe the V's a 5, and it's A5E--some sort of secret U.S. government project, maybe?"

"I really don't think Mr. Kight was a government sleeper agent, Randy," Stottlemeyer shook his head, "This is a V, trust me. And it looks like he was going to write more, but the killer did him in in mid-sentence (indeed, the lower cross-section of the E was only half the length of the top one, Adrian noticed), so what we need to know is what this was the beginning of."

"So you've got something else?" Sharona stuck her head out the door, the color slowly returning to her face from the shock.

"Nothing that would immediately..." Adrian noticed Benjy standing right behind her, watching with suspicious eyes, as if he knew something was amiss, "Well, nothing that would immediately solve the case," he said evasively.

"No need to go over his head, Adrian; I'm going to tell him everything right now," the nurse said, "In private, of course, since this is best told between just the two of us, if you don't mind."

"Certainly," the detective walked back inside, followed by his psychiatrist and the police. "You, uh, you're not upset by what's happened here, since by now I guess you all know?" he asked the rest of the children in the den.

"After standing next to a dead body once, you tend to get used to it, sort of," Wendy shrugged.

"How about you, Tommy?" Adrian pressed him, desperate to get some kind of friendly reaction out of him.

"I'm just fine," the boy told him defensively.

"After you went pale when you first heard there were two dead bodies in here?" Jared scoffed at him, "Cut me a break; you were this close to passing out."

"Well, it was a surprise at first," Tommy stammered, trying to regain his edge, "But I'm over it now, really."

"I'm, I'm sure you are," Adrian said quickly and encouragingly, "After all, playing with that severed finger when I first met you had no effect on you after..."

"Uh, Mr. Monk, not helping," Julie tugged his shoulder, gesturing at the freaked-out look on Tommy's face again.

"Well, let me at least try and sooth your nerves a little bit, my young friend," Jack pulled Tommy up onto the sofa and dug a book out of one of his suitcases.

"Are you crazy too!?" the boy had to know.

"Not at all," the former trucker reassured him, putting on his reading glasses, "So if you'll let me, let me read you a little tale I read my son Adrian there when he was about your age, a nice little story by Arthur Conan Doyle called Silver Blaze, featuring the conundrum of the non-barking dog. It always put his mind at ease--well, relative ease--so my guess is it'll work that way for you too."

* * *

Adrian wished he could have a soothing bedtime story of his own, even though listening to another story about murder had done little for Tommy's nerves in the end. Once again he was wide awake when everyone had gone to sleep, pacing in restless circles and trying to block out Ambrose's incessant snoring. Every now and then he'd glance nervously out the window, half expecting to see Trevor standing outside, armed and with hate burning in his eyes. Much like Sharona, he too had had nightmares every now and then of an insane Trevor coming after him, often with burning red eyes and a sinister, unnatural laugh. He had been certain the man was dead--all the evidence had seemed to say so when he'd examined the body--but the ominousness of the message on the wall earlier now threw him into doubt. Until the authorities in New Jersey confirmed that the corpse in the coffin was him, he had to consider the possibility that his arch-nemesis may still be out there, hungry for more revenge, even though he had appeared to turn back to the light just before his seeming death.

He glanced outside again, but the night was pitch dark. Taking a relieved breath, he held the flashlight back up to his copy of Joshua Kight's case file. Somehow, something in the back of his mind was nagging him that somehow, some way, there might be a connection between that and his parents' death this evening. He read over the familiar file again:

_...hit and run at the corner of Sepulveda and Van Nuys. Victim was apparently walking home from baseball practice when fatal mishap occurred. Victim appeared run over twice, once diagonally and then once more head-on. Victim survived for ten minutes afterwards. Tire tracks seemed consistent with a Spartan brand used on a van-sized vehicle. Parents report no suspicious activity on victim's behalf, although he had seemed to be getting quieter and withdrawn for an unknown reason over the last_ _few weeks before his death... _

Adrian squinted at the file again. Something was in fact triggering now. Joshua had been hit head-on in the second impact after a diagonal blow the first time? Why, he had to wonder? Unless, could it be, the killer could only do so in a straight line? Was it in fact possible that the OCD Killer, for lack of a more savory title, was behind both murders? Or was he simply reading into it too much? Possibly the killer could have just done it to ensure Joshua died--although that strongly hinted something deeper with the crime than just a simple hit and run.

Just then he heard a scraping noise coming from down in the basement. He jumped in surprise, his heart rate skyrocketing. Now what was going on down there? Was the killer coming back now for more? He rummaged frantically through his trunk for something that would make a reasonable weapon. His mechanical claw was the only thing that seemed feasible enough. Gripping it hard, he crept downstairs. The noise got louder as he approached the basement door, and he could hear voices whispering. He slid the door open and groped for the light switch. "Hands up!" he shouted, flicking it and thrusting the claw forward.

"Whoa, whoa, Adrian, take it easy there!" Jack Jr. was crawling up through a hole in the floor, two attractive women with him. "I'd like you to meet the ravishing Rochelle and scintillating Selena; we met at the fairgrounds, and we agreed to meet up again later, since I don't care what Dad..."

"Hang on, Jack," Adrian interrupted him, staring at the tunnel the con artist was climbing out of, "What is this?"

"Found it last night exploring the place after everyone went to bed," Jack Jr. explained, "Comes out right by the fairgrounds, so it comes in mighty handy, as you can see."

Adrian's mind clicked. "Jack," he asked softly, "Does anyone else know about this tunnel that you know of?"

"Now do you think I was going to tell a soul about this when it was the only way I'd be able to circumvent that stupid rule about not making love?" Jack Jr. snorted, "Just promise you won't say anything."

"Well, Jack, I may have to," the detective told him, "I have a feeling whoever killed the Kights used this tunnel to get in and out without anyone seeing them. And you're certain you can't think of anyone else who might...?"

"Hand to God," Jack Jr. thrust his hand in the air, "This is the first time I used this since I found it. And I wasn't watched when I discovered it, so whoever it was must have already known about it. OK, ladies," he turned to his "dates," "We have," he glanced at his watch, "Probably about four hours to have the best time possible before you'll have to get out of here, so let's be nice and quiet and we'll have some real fun tonight."

The women nodded and tiptoed after him toward his room on the first floor. Adrian glanced down the tunnel. It was far too muddy for him to go down there on his own, but a quick glance showed there to be a plethora of footprints in the mud, so there had been much heavier traffic using the tunnel than just Jack Jr. and his dates. But who had known about it apart from his half brother, assuming Jack Jr. was in fact innocent? No one save his in-laws had been up here since before the festival that he knew of, and there was absolutely no reason he could think of they'd want to kill the Kights; they were incapable of murder...weren't they?

With a shiver, he pushed the trapdoor shut with his foot and re-covered it with the rug that used to have been over it, he could tell from its rumpled condition, making sure it was perfectly straight and level before leaving. He walked back upstairs to his room, trying to ignore the unpleasant noises now coming from Jack Jr.'s room, and shut the door. He walked over to the window and stared out at the still empty lawn, trying to put everything together.

"I can tell the whole thing's bothering you, Adrian," came a sudden familiar voice from behind him. Adrian's heart leaped as he spun around. Could it possibly be...?

"Dr. Kroger," he breathed softly. Sure enough, his former psychiatrist was standing before him, shimmering and transparent, but still there. "Hello Adrian," Dr. Kroger greeted him, "I could tell you needed someone to talk to at the moment. Care to open up about everything?"

"It, it would be a great honor," Adrian gushed, "Do, do I still have to pay you for this?"

"No, I have no need for money, as you can probably tell," Dr. Kroger almost laughed, "Just have a seat and we'll get started."

A chair very much like the one in his office he'd often sat in materialized underneath him as he sat down. Adrian plopped down on the largest trunk in the room, which as he looked at it took the appearance of his chair from his years as Dr. Kroger's patient as well. Moreover, a quick glance out the window showed the waterfall that had been outside Dr. Kroger's window all those years apparently flowing again--in mid-air. "So, Adrian, first off, I have been following your progress from where I am now, and I'm glad you've taken well to Neven," Dr. Kroger began, "If I had to request anyone else to handle you, it would have been him."

"Yes, he, he is really the best I can ask for after you," Adrian admitted, "But he's still not you."

"As well he shouldn't be," his former psychiatrist said solemnly, "Neven's his own person, meant to be seen in his own unique light, so I'll ask you to do that with him."

He shifted around in his faux chair. "So, you're upset about the murders tonight, aren't you?"

"I am a bit worried, yes," Adrian admitted, "Not just because of how brutal they were or why the Kights had to be the ones to die given how life was looking up for them again. Given what evidence I've got at the moment, I can't help wondering..." he turned towards the bunk beds to make sure Ambrose was still asleep; the hideously loud snoring confirmed it, "I can't help wondering if someone here in this cabin is the killer."

"I see," Dr. Kroger mused, "And you're absolutely sure of this?"

"Not absolutely, but it stands to reason as to how they were able to get in undetected. If Jack Jr.--you never did get a chance to meet him, thank God, really--if he's right that the other end's by the fairgrounds, anyone here could have sneaked in while the festival was in progress, killed Tim and Elizabeth...and technically Kaylee," he grimaced terribly, realizing their daughter would never come into the world now, "and then come right back to the fairgrounds with no one the wiser. We all split up after we got there, so it could have been anyone."

"Mm hmm," his former psychiatrist nodded softly, "Do you suspect anyone in particular?"

"No, and I'm not going to jump on anyone until I have proof positive," Adrian said quickly, "If, if you've been watching, you probably know what happened between me and Marge when I thought she might have helped to kill..."

He froze up as he heard a twig snap outside. He thrust his flashlight out the window, but was relieved to see it was merely a raccoon, which chittered loudly and scurried off into the bushes. "And knowing that Trevor still might be alive," he gulped, "I just don't see how it's possible this time...is there anything you might be able to do?" he glanced at Dr. Kroger imploringly, "It would certainly make me and Sharona feel a lot better if we knew for sure..."

"Well, we'll see what I can do, Adrian," Dr. Kroger said non-committally. "Moving on," he dug out a vaporous notepad, "I noticed you've been trying to get through to Tommy over the last two days. Does that mean your stance on children has changed at all since we last discussed that?"

"In what regards?"

"Do you feel you're more ready for them then you were six years ago when we last talked formally about it?"

"I don't know," Adrian admitted, shaking his head, "I'm torn, really. Part of me wants a child--I've heard so much good about how it feels to raise one, it makes me feel like I'm missing something big by not having one. The other half of me, though, is scared."

"Of what?"

"The responsibility it entails, among other things," the detective admitted, "I don't want to fail; a child's too big a responsibility to fail for. I saw how you and Troy fell out there for a while, and I keep thinking it'll come to that in the end for me too."

"Well, Adrian, we all go through those phases when we're younger to a degree," Dr. Kroger told him, "At some point, sometimes younger and sometimes older, we start to feel we're ready for the world, and that our parents, for some reason or another, are a hindrance to us realizing our potential. It's not always a hateful state--I myself went through a phase when I was Troy's age with my own father, where he wanted me to go to medical school and be a surgeon rather than use my talents for psychiatry. We never screamed at each other, but things were somewhat prickly until we came to a mutual understanding after I got my license to practice. But I didn't hold it against him; he was just exercising parental concern, really. Sometimes, Adrian, when it comes to a child, you've just got to run the risk of an emotional war of some kind. It's not a perfect union between parent and child, it never will be, and there probably will be fights over one thing or another. But on the whole, I'd say you're more than qualified to be a father if that's what you so desire."

"If, if you say so," Adrian nodded, a small smile crossing his lips, "I, uh, also have concerns about myself and Natalie. Just about everyone I talk to outside my circle--it seems pretty much every fan out there these days--they really want her and I to...well, you probably know. Should I even consider that? I am still a married man, and I don't want to replace Mitch..."

"It's entirely your decision, Adrian," Dr. Kroger said, "Don't feel pressured to jump into a relationship if you're not ready for it. On the other side of the coin, if you feel you are close to trying again, by all means try something--and don't be afraid of what happened with the Zemenian woman," he added when Adrian opened his mouth to bring up that exact point, "All that meant was that you and her weren't the right connection. As for you and Natalie, maybe you've got something beyond a professional relationship, maybe you don't. Only you can find that out."

He put away the notepad. "Well, it is getting a little late, so if there's nothing else to go over..."

"There is, actually," Adrian raised his hand. His eyes were starting to well up, "I need to know, why? Why did it have to end like that, why you had to leave me like...I didn't get the chance to say goodbye, to say...thank you for everything..."

"And you didn't have to, Adrian; I knew you were grateful for everything. I could see it in your eyes at the end of each session," Dr. Kroger leaned forward in his chair, "Listen, Adrian, sometimes things just happen. What happened to me was one of them. All you need to keep in mind is that it wasn't your fault; if it's anyone's fault, it's mine; I should have watched my cholesterol intake more over the years, probably exercised more, too."

"But you didn't deserve to go out that way," Adrian could barely hold back there tears, "Why couldn't you have gone slower, some way that would have let me say goodbye properly? And while Dr. Bell's terrific, I still miss you..."

"I know," Dr. Kroger patted him gently on the shoulder, "Don't mourn for me, Adrian. I had a good life, and I have no regrets. And I feel it was an honor of a lifetime to have known you so well, as I'm sure everyone else in this cabin would tell you as well if you asked them. But you can't hold on to me, Adrian. That's what you've been doing with Trudy for the last twelve years, and I tried to tell you all that time, it's been holding your readjustment back. You've got to move forward and put me behind you--but don't forget," he added when the detective looked up at him, befuddled, "By all means don't forget me. And remember, as long as you do remember me fondly, Adrian, I'll never really be dead."

He extended a vapory hand towards his former patient. Adrian extended his and could vaguely feel something as he shook it. "I think I'd better get going now," Dr. Kroger rose up, "But if you need me again during the week, just let me know. I would be glad to assist in any way I can."

Before Adrian could say anything, there came loud footsteps stomping up the hall. "Chuck!?" came Harold's excited voice. Adrian swore he saw Dr. Kroger's face contort with discomfort before he faded away completely, taking the chairs and the waterfall with him. Moments later, Harold threw the door open and glanced wildly in every direction. "Where's Chuck!?" he demanded to Adrian, throwing on the lights.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Harold," Adrian said innocently, "You must have been having a nightmare."

"Don't try and play coy with me, Adrian, I heard Chuck in here!" Harold shouted, advancing towards the detective, "Now where is he!?"

"What's going on?" Ambrose mumbled, rising up on his bunk.

"Where's Chuck!?" Harold demanded to the instruction manual writer, shoving him aside to search behind the bed, "If you're trying to hide him...!"

"What the hell are you yelling about!?" Troy sounded incredibly irritated as he stormed into the room; other lights could be seen blazing on throughout the cabin behind him.

"You're father's in here; I heard him just now," Harold glanced wildly out the window, "And don't deny it!" he pointed accusingly at Adrian, "Because I heard him loud and clear...!!"

"Will you please cork it!" a very irate Stottlemeyer entered the room, fuming (Adrian could see half the other residents of the cabin stumbling into the upstairs hall, also awakened by Harold's rantings; on the lower level, he could hear low thumps from Jack Jr.'s room, likely his half brother's dates hiding under the bed until everyone went back to sleep), "I don't know what's the matter with you, Krenshaw, but the rest of us would really like to...!"

"Quiet!" Adrian raised his hand. Something else had caught his attention; it sounded like a car door slamming just out front. "Now what?" he looked out the window, and could just make out a dark figure walking towards the front door. "Looks like we've got company," he whispered.

"Well they're not taking us out without a fight," Stottlemeyer grabbed Adrian's claw from where it had been dropped against the wall. "Lieutenant," he waved a still half asleep Disher to follow him towards the stairs. Adrian also followed; better just in case things went south, he figured. The captain trudged softly through the still dark downstairs towards the front door, which ominously was being rattled hard. Raising the claw, Stottlmeyer threw on the lights nearest the door. "Get out of here!" he shouted as loud as he could, jerking the claw forward at the door.

"Whoa, whoa, Captain, it's me!" a deeply stunned Cathy Trumbull threw up her hands in terror. Disher's one-time fiance's suitcases were on the ground outside. Stottlemeyer lowered the claw. "Oh, it's you," he said, much more relieved now, "Anyone else out there with you?"

"Nope, there wasn't a car on the road since I left Redding. Why, what's going on?"

"It's a pretty long story," Disher unlocked the door for her, "What took you this long to get here?"

"I got hit with a second delay, do you believe it?" Cathy rolled her eyes, "An early season snowstorm over Salt Lake City--so bad they cancelled the flight completely. I had to book another one to get to San Francisco; I tried to call, but it would let me through. So, anything of note happen while I was out?"

"Oh, not too much, except our hosts got murdered a few hours ago, and the captain's retiring and wants me to succeed him," the lieutenant explained, helping her out of her coat.

"Murdered!?" she was taken aback.

"Unfortunately. Be glad you weren't here until now, Cathy," Natalie managed a sleepy wave from the upstairs railing, "That's why we were all uptight when we heard someone here. So, Randy says you're moving to San Francisco for good now."

"Yeah, we've come to a decision of our own," she smiled at the lieutenant, "We'd like to announce it publicly the next chance we...!"

"Shhhh," Adrian held up his hand again. This time he could hear the wail of countless sirens across the lake, in the general area of the end of the trail to town. A quick look out the window confirmed something was definitely up over there: even with lots of leaves still on the trees, scores of red lights could be seen. "Something else just happened," he mused out loud, sprinting upstairs to get dressed again, "Something very, very bad."


	7. Murder, Murder Everywhere

Adrian's first sight as he came rushing out of the woods wasn't very reassuring: half a dozen Breckman Lake squad cars were surrounding the main hotel that the V.I.P. guests had been staying at, their sirens still flashing. The detective made a beeline for the sheriff's cruiser. He could hear the distant shuffling of feet as the rest of his usual crime scene team raced through the woods to keep up with him (he'd been out of the cabin so quickly that he'd left everyone behind in no time). "Sheriff, what happened now?" he waved Wallace down.

"You sure you really want to know, Monk?" Wallace seemed a bit green in the face.

"That bad, huh?"

"Yeah, worse than anything I've ever seen," the sheriff glanced uneasily up at the second floor, "We've got a quadruple homicide up there concerning several people I think you knew. I guess you'll want to go in anyway and see if you can find anything that'll crack it though, right?"

Adrian nodded solemnly. It was his duty after all. He followed the sheriff into the hotel, where crime scene investigators, including Shasta County officials, where milling around in the lobby, taking statements from the staff. The first thing the detective noticed was the mantle over the fireplace. "There's only one sword there," he pointed to the wall over the mantle. A single sword was mounted there pointing downwards, but there was a clear imprint alongside it indicating a second had once been there.

"Yeah, that's probably the best place to start," Wallace told him, "About twenty minutes ago, someone dressed in black from head to toe, ski mask and gloves and all, strode into the lobby and pulled the sword right off the wall. A bellboy tried to stop him and got slashed right in the arm," he gestured to the bellboy in question, being treated by medics. "The suspect pushed past some of the rest of the staff and charged upstairs," he continued, leading the detective towards the stairs, "The manager said he was puzzled as to what was going on, until he started hearing the screams from upstairs. Better brace yourself Monk; what happened up here isn't for the faint of heart."

Adrian steeled himself as best he could as they ascended the stairs. His first impression wasn't positive at all: the hall rugs had deep bloodstains on them. "The first screams came from in here," Wallace pointed at the first room on the right, "The manager said it sounded like Mrs. Maven was being strangled, and that's exactly what we found, as you can see."

His heart rate skyrocketing, Adrian hesitantly stuck his head in the door. A grisly scene awaited him: Marci lay face down on the floor, her head turned at an unnatural angle and four gunshot wounds to her back. The detective also noticed a sword similar to the other one over the mantle had been driven through the middle of her laptop where it sat on the table. Holding up his hand before the sheriff could say anything else, he started walking around the room doing his familiar hand motions. "Marci was at her computer typing when he came in; she was worried about something," he announced after a few minutes, "The killers climbed up the drainpipe-there were two of them-and broke it open, startling her. They were on top of her before she could run and tried to strangle her with the phone cord," he pointed to the phone cord, which was stretched taut, "But she put up too much of a fight and was able to scream, so they had to quickly break her neck and shoot her to finish her quickly. One of them started burning something she'd been writing, probably something very important," he glanced at a scorched mark on the rug where charred paper fragments showed something had clearly been torched, "while the other one smashed her laptop to try and eliminate something else. Is there any way we might retrieve whatever was on the computer here?" he asked, staring again at the wrecked computer.

"Probably not," an officer in the room shook his head, "Just looking at it now it's clear the hard drive got damaged irreparably. Our best hope is that she wrote it down somewhere, and it didn't get torched like this," he pointed at the ashes on the floor.

"Interesting thoughts there, Monk; it does tend to fit what else we found here," Wallace nodded, examining his notes.

"Of course, I could be wrong-which, you know, I'm not," the detective said, "The third killer, the one who grabbed the sword, he was going to be the guard," he continued, walking out into the hall, "He was going to block the door and make sure Marci couldn't escape. But," he examined the knob, "Someone was trying to break it in and help her, so he..."

His voice trailed off. For a familiar figure was lying on the floor in the room across the hall, being examined by MEs. Adrian's blood froze up. _"Steve..."_ he mumbled softly, shocked.

"Yep, Monk, witnesses say Steven Albright was trying to break in to help Miss Maven when the killer with the sword came up the stairs," Wallace told him grimly, The perp then chased Albright into his room and killed him too. You sure you want to go in there, Monk?" he asked as the detective hustled across the hall, "It's a lot more gruesome than in here."

But Adrian knew he had to, much as he didn't really want to. He glanced more thoroughly at the corpse on the floor...and immediately had to look back. Albright had had it even worse than Marci-the killer had in fact decapitated him, hopefully after he'd already been dead, the detective pleaded, for the Teegers' sake. It was then he heard the shuffling of his party's footsteps on the stairs coming up from the lobby. "Oh my God," he heard Natalie exclaim at the sight of the blood on the floor. He gulped nervously; this was certainly the one time he didn't really want her around to see the crime scene. "Mr. Monk, what happened here!?" she was nonetheless running right towards him and Albright's room.

"Uh, Natalie, I, uh, really don't think..." he tried to block out her view of Albright's horrible fate, but it was too late. "_OH GOD!" _she shrieked in utter horror at her longtime friend now without his head and ran hard back up the hall with her hands over her mouth, clearly about to throw up (Adrian hoped she just got to the bathroom in time; the floors couldn't take much more punishment). The captain, the lieutenant, and Sharona stared at her in surprise as she brushed hard past them. "What's the matter with her?" Disher looked puzzled.

"They cut Steve's head off," a shaken Garrett Price inched out of the nearest open room, "He heard Marci Maven screaming and ran over to help; the screams just woke me up from a good night's sleep, and I'm usually slow to get up in the morning, or I would have helped him myself. But by the time I got up, it was too late; the guy in black decked him to the floor, raised the sword over his head and...it all just happened to fast for me to do anything. Then the guy ran into Marci's room and I heard a loud zapping, just like when..."

"Uh, Garrett," Adrian interrupted, "did you notice anything about the man who killed Steve at all that might help us identify him?"

"He was about six-nine, I'd say a hundred seventy pounds, maybe, black coat, black pants, black shoes, black ski mask, black gloves; he really didn't want to be identified," Garrett rambled off, "But come to mention it, he did tend to walk a little stiff-legged, as if something was wrong with his legs or something."

"Hmm," Adrian mused. This sounded very familiar to him; Wendy's case last year had in fact also had a suspect using stilts; could Albright's killer have been using some as well, he wondered? "Anything else?"

"Yeah actually; I tried to go after the assailant, but he knocked me out. When I came to, I found this on the desk in our room," Garrett extended a paper to the detective, "Looks like Steve was writing something down before he died, and didn't quite get to finish it. Do you know what it means? I couldn't decipher it for the life of me."

Adrian held up the paper. Written on it was:

_SATX02049_

The nine was only half-drawn; Albright must have realized the direness of Marci's predicament and gone to help without finishing what he started, the detective thought. "No, can't quite see what this means," he told the lawyer.

"Could be a secret code using letter-number substitution," Disher proposed, "Let me see that," he took the paper and drew underneath what had been already been written the sequence 1912024JTDI. "Got it," he announced, "It must be a phone number: 1-912-024-JTDI. One way to find out."

He dug out his cell phone and started dialing. "Amazing; that actually might work for once," Stottlemeyer whispered in the detective's ear, impressed that Disher might actually have a good idea. "So, Sheriff," he turned to Wallace, "The guys downstairs said it was a quadruple homicide here. Who are the other two?"

"They took out Reggie too," Adrian grimaced at another familiar voice. Not the bums, he rued; surely the hotel would have thought better than to let them in here! But indeed it was a sorrowful Professor who stood in his own doorway near the end of the hall. "He came out to see what was going on," the homeless man lamented, "They were coming out of the Maven lady's room, and the biggest one just shot him point blank in the head. He didn't do anything wrong, and they shot him like a dog!"

Adrian noticed the sheet-covered body in the Professor's room. Part of him wanted to say out loud that the dead bum had gotten what he'd deserved for living so terrible a life, but he knew Natalie would find out somehow in the end he'd said it, and he'd never hear the end of it. "That's, that's too bad," he said, trying to keep a straight face, "And the fourth?"

"Another bellboy," Wallace explained, pointing at another sheet on the floor, "He was coming out of another room there when they were running for the fire escape, and one of the killers stabbed him in the back as they went by him. "

"Oh my God," Sharona wretched; she was starting to look green in the face as well from the extent of the carnage.

"What's more," the sheriff told her, "Mr. Professor in there," he pointed at the lead bum, cradling his dead associate in his arms and sobbing now, "swears he saw blood on the knife before the bellboy was stabbed, so we're thinking these killers could well be the same people who took out your friends the Kights."

"Do tell," Stottlemeyer trudged to the window and stared out. "Anyone see where they went after they went out the fire escape?"

"To the woods," another deputy pointed to the nearest grove, "We've got search parties going through there, but no sign of them yet."

"They might have gone through the tunnel," Adrian mused.

"Tunnel?" the captain turned to him, eyebrows raised.

"There's a big tunnel under the cabin, Captain," the detective told him, "Jack Jr. was using it earlier to smuggle in some women for...things that men and women tend to do late at night," he grimaced at the thought of what his half brother might be doing at that moment, "I'm guessing that's how the killers got in to get the Kights."

"All right, we'd better take a look at that as soon as we get back," Stottlemeyer nodded emphatically. He noticed Disher walking towards him with his cell in hand. "And...?"

"Probably not, Captain," the lieutenant shook his head, "That goes to some phone service wanting to sell water beds or something like that; the pitchman was talking too fast for me to understand half of what he was saying."

"Well, maybe not," Stottlemeyer wasn't as convinced, "We can run a check on these people, just to make sure something wasn't up with their water beds that's connected to everything that happened here."

"So you think it might be connected, then?" Disher sounded impressed Stottlemeyer thought well of his course of action for once.

"This time, until we get something better to work with, it's certainly possible," the Captain patted him on the back, "Good work, soon-to-be Captain Disher. Maybe it'll break this wide open in the end."

Disher beamed proudly. "Indeed," Adrian nodded, "I'm, uh, if everything's under control here for the moment, I'll go see if Natalie's OK and all."

The sheer tortured look on her face as she'd run off had him deeply concerned. He hustled back downstairs to the lobby and glanced around. A familiar shock of blonde hair was visible in the window of the front door. Rain was starting to fall, perhaps fittingly enough, as he stepped out onto the hotel's porch. Natalie was bent over by the door, still sobbing hard, for which Adrian really couldn't blame her. "I, uh,..." he fumbled for just the right words to say, "I...I really don't know what to say..."

"Why Steve!?" her voice was a weak crackle, "What did he ever do to hurt anyone!?"

"Who knows?" Adrian dug out several more wipes from his pocket and laid them down on the porch before sitting down on them next to her, "When we find out, maybe we can learn who killed the Kights; we think it might be the same person now."

"Oh," she didn't look up or stop crying, "Anything else? Who else died?"

Adrian spelled out everything else he'd learned since she'd run off. "So you wouldn't know what SATX02049 might mean, would you?" he had to ask.

"No," she shook her head emphatically, "I don't know at all what he was trying to say there."

She finally turned to look up at him, tears streaming down her face. "I thought I was good for anything now," she admitted, "I thought after five years with you I'd be immune to crime scenes. But seeing Steve like that...and everyone else...why do people do things like this!?"

"We may never know, Natalie," without realizing it, he'd put his arm around her. He hastily pulled it back when he saw she started to smile for it, "But I just know this is something big, something VERY big. Why else would they create so much carnage and go as far as they did to destroy whatever Marci was working on? She must have found something out, something terrible-maybe even something connected to me, to one or all of us..."

"Well, I'm not hiding anything, Mr. Monk," she told him quickly, "But I think you're right; looking at what happened up there," she gestured weakly at the second floor above them, where the silhouettes of the police could still be seen milling around in the windows, "It's clear somebody's willing to go to any length to keep something quiet..."

* * *

The rain had picked up by morning and was pounding on the cabin window like a set of giant fingers. No one inside seemed to care. Too hung over by the events of the previous night, they sat around blankly, the silence broken only by the slow, lethargic typing of Jack Sr.'s typewriter as he slowly pounded out his next series novel. Adrian himself listlessly sprayed window cleaner on the window nearest to the front door and wiped it down in even lines. Again he'd only gotten minimal sleep, being worried stiff that someone around him may have been the mastermind of all of yesterday's killings. It was hard to fathom, since he largely trusted everyone in his room with his life, but all the evidence at the moment was saying that at least one of them was a cold-blooded monster, that their apparent grief was merely an act for cold satisfaction. What was it that Marci had discovered before she died? Who stood to be implicated by it? And how far would that person go to keep the secret buried forever? The thoughts of how far made him shiver, given what he'd seen the killer was capable of the night before.

There was a tapping to his left. A bored and sullen-looking Benjy was tapping the shade cord against the window. Adrian felt he knew exactly what was on the boy's mind at the moment, and that he needed to say something on the matter. "Um," he cleared his throat softly, siding over to him, "I, uh, guess your mother did tell you exactly what was on the walls in here last night. Now, we're, we're not saying for certain your father is alive and is behind what happened, there's no concrete proof of that at all, but I think you should know that until we find concrete proof otherwise, we need to be prepared in case by some chance it is him. You, you would be OK if it turned out...what I'm saying is..."

"If he's back, and he did this, we'll just have to face him down," Benjy said solemnly, "We did it before, we can do it again. But I hope it's not, I really don't..."

He hung his head. Adrian understood; Benjy was so desperate to find any positive aspect of his father to hold on to despite all the terrible things he'd done over the years, so desperate to remember the good side of the man whose good side he'd known better than anyone. The detective knew it would break the boy's heart if Trevor was alive and killing again. He didn't want it to be true either, now that he'd come to see Trevor in a more balanced light himself, but still, he couldn't dismiss that the cold brutality of the murders matched much of Trevor's M.O. during his nadir, and from scanning the police reports, he knew that one of the three killers was a near dead ringer for him in terms of height and weight. He begged that the exhumation of the corpse back in New Jersey would hurry up; the sooner they cleared his name of this, the better-if they could clear it of course...

"So I guess you'll be glad when I finish this one, then?" Jack Sr. spoke up from his typewriter; he'd been watching the whole conversation unfold, and Adrian could tell the whole speech had hit a nerve with him too.

"Probably. I just hope people can see him the way I do a lot," Benjy walked over to him, "How far are you now?"

"Probably about halfway," the former trucker handed him the latest completed page, "I hope you don't mind, though, it doesn't look like I've got any speaking parts for you in this one the way I've got it outlined right now."

"I don't care about that," the boy scanned the page and several subsequent pages over, "Are you sure you don't have Mr. Monk a little harsh here, though? I know he didn't like my dad a lot back in the day, but this just seems a little unsympathetic the way he's speaking here."

"Well, judging from Adrian's experience with me, I just had a feeling this kind of situation would make him act a little hardened," Jack glanced towards his son. For a moment Adrian thought he saw what looked like an angry flash in his father's eyes-or was he just worked up over the thought that anyone in the cabin stood to be the killer?

"Let me take a look," Julie walked over and hefted several more pages. "Well, he's a little harsh, but I think it would pass for him," she rendered a verdict.

"Thank you, that makes me feel a bit better about it," Jack commended her, "You get a little bit more here than you got in the last one that was published, but I hope you don't mind having your leg broken, because that was the only way I could think of to set the plot in motion."

"Hey," she reassured him, "After getting shot for real (Benjy opened grimaced at this, the grim weight of the knowledge his father had deliberately shot his friend doomed to hang over him for life, Adrian knew), a broken leg's nothing. Just tell me you make me look good in the whole thing."

"Well, you get to lay out the basic thesis for the readers, so I think you'll like that," Jack assured her, "I'm sorry to say you probably won't be in the next one, though, because I think it's time Ambrose gets his due in this series for once."

"Really, Dad?" Ambrose bolted upright from his lethargic position on the coach.

"Absolutely, Ambrose, do you think I'd block you out of this series?" Jack reached into his briefcase under the desk and extracted a binder, "Here's the outline I've got; ties in with Beyond Earth, since I know you always loved that as a kid."

"You, you do know you'll have to clear the rights for that, Dad," Adrian pointed out as Ambrose snatched the binder and eagerly leafed through his father's initial outline.

"Already done, in fact," the former trucker told him, "And it turned out to be much easier than I thought, right Mr. Ellison?"

"That's right," Dwight, flicking the TV to the Weather Channel, nodded, "In fact, I think the franchise is so desperate for attention that they'll do anything to get back in the spotlight. Quiet down everyone," he held up his hand. The local forecast was coming on. Adrian watched the screen intently, feeling the need to get back outside and find out more on the case and hoping the weather would cooperate. Luckily, the official forecast at the moment stated that the rain would taper off after noon, although the temperature would get a lot colder. "So, I guess the festivities for tonight should still be on?" he asked his father-in-law.

"I think so," Dwight nodded again, "I'll have to call Dr. Atherton to make sure, though; he agreed to replace Ms. Maven as festival coordinator this morning."

"Well, at least the sun's return should help brighten us up again," Archbishop Fitzwater spoke up from an armchair, "After all, I see no need for us to simply mope around all day. Sad though the events that have transpired are, it won't make us feel any better sitting around here all day."

"Nice, Father," Stottlemeyer commended him, apparently not all that keen on the archbishop's take on the situation. "And while we're waiting," the captain rose up, "No reason we can't go check that tunnel you found, Monk."

"No reason?" Adrian's lip twisted. He noticed an upset Jack Jr. silently mouthing at him, "_You told them!?"_ He whispered back at his half brother, "_That was a crime scene; do you think I had a choice!?"_"Well," he turned back to Stottlemeyer, "There is the fact that it's dark and muddy and narrow down there and..."

"And we're doing it for Steve," Natalie rose up, a re-energized look on her face, "Let's do it."

"Well, um, uh..." the detective stammered at this abrupt turn of events.

"You heard her, Adrian, we're going down there now," Sharona rose up as well, "Get ready if you have to, but we're checking it out."

"All right," Adrian sighed, "But this is going to take time, so be a little patient. Where'd I leave the stilts?"

"You really need stilts to go down there?" Harold mocked him as he sprayed cleaner over the window Adrian had already done, "Looks like you're more chicken than I thought, Adrian."

"Funny of you to say that, Harold, because I certainly don't see you volunteering to go down there," Adrian glared at him. "Ah, it's this one," he pulled the trunk in question forward and opened it up...and frowned. He silently took out each pair of stilts and counted them all: nine. And he'd definitely packed ten sets. Which confirmed his suspicions: the killer that had beheaded Albright WAS wearing stilts, and had stolen from the detective to get them. Meaning again it could be anybody, since the trunk had been right there since they'd checked in, easy for anyone to open it and filch from it. He didn't want to announce this finding out loud, though; the actual killer might be spooked if they knew he was onto them. Silently, he unfolded the stilts and went around the cabin for the rest of the necessary paraphernalia. Five minutes later, bedecked in another radiation suit, hard helmet, and carrying several flashlights, he pushed open the secret trapdoor in the basement for his crime scene crew. "Wow," Disher exclaimed, glancing down the hole, "Do you suppose they dug this, or was this always here?"

"My guess is always here," Natalie proposed, "It would probably have raised too much suspicion to dig all this out in the first place; the neighbors would have heard it. This cabin was probably a smuggling or moonshining station or something like that back in the days before the fairgrounds were built."

"Right," the lieutenant nodded, "Well, ladies first."

"Thank you so much for showing you believe in chivalry," Sharona told him flatly, climbing into the tunnel first.

"Wait up," Turcotte rushed down the basement steps, "I'd like to come along too. Actually, from what you said about the murders last night, something about them sounds a little familiar to me."

"Well then, if that's the case, come on along then, John," Stottlemeyer gestured down the hole.

"One for you," Adrian handed the former CIA operative a spare flashlight. Taking a deep breath, he climbed down into the tunnel and quickly jumped up on the stilts. His head was only about a couple of feet from the tunnel ceiling, but it was a small price to pay to get away from the mud on the floor. He hustled out of the way as the lieutenant climbed down last. "Look at that," Disher aimed his own flashlight at the floor, "Looks like a whole army's been through here."

Indeed, a mess of footprints-far more than Adrian had seen the previous night from above the hole-were heading both towards and away from the cabin could be seen. "Yeah, looks like its been as busy as the Nimitz at rush hour down here," his superior agreed, "So let's see where they came in."

He led the group down the tunnel. Adrian bumped his head off a low ceiling several yards along. "You sure you want to stay up there?" Turcotte asked him.

"I'm not walking in the mud, period," the detective said firmly. Nonetheless, he swayed, trying hard to keep his balance. The tunnel stretched on for several hundred feet-then abruptly split into two tunnels. Moreover, the footprints continued down both of them. "So, do we split up here?" Disher proposed.

"We certainly do. You and Sharona come with me; Monk, you, Natalie, and John take the one to the right," Stottlemeyer delegated them.

"Can't I go with them?" the nurse protested, seeing how overly pleased Disher was with the arrangement.

"Trust me, Sharona, I think Natalie needs Monk at the moment a little more than you do," the captain rebuffed her.

"Are you insinuating...?" Adrian started to ask, but the other group was already continuing down the left tunnel. Shrugging, he continued with Natalie and Turcotte down the right tunnel, which seemed to be sharply sloping downwards. "So, John," Natalie asked the former CIA agent, "What is it about the case that's familiar to you?"

"About five years ago, I was working on the case of an al-Qaida sympathizer named Leo Kashner," Turcotte explained, "He was funneling funds from his bank into bin Laden's overseas accounts before they were frozen by the government. One of his partners wanted out, and Kashner killed him exactly the same was your friend Mrs. Maven was killed. We finally got enough evidence to arrest him, but he was waiting for us at the bank: he took out three agents and half his fellow bank employees before escaping in one of our trucks. I was shot twice in the arm myself, but luckily it didn't sever any arteries. Anyway, his truck then went over a cliff outside of Phoenix and exploded. They never found the body, though, and I always a had a feeling he may have escaped before the blast."

"But why would he be wanting to kill the people I know?" Adrian inquired, bending down to avoid another low point in the ceiling, "I've never heard of him before, and I certainly never worked on any case concerning al-Qaida funding."

"Your guess would be as good as mine, Monk," Turcotte shook his head, "But it just strikes me how similar the murder was that I can't help thinking it's him."

The tunnel continued downwards for several hundred yards before leveling off. Adrian's claustrophobia was starting to kick in. How long could the tunnel really be, he wondered? It seemed like they were going right under the lake. The tunnel continued for what seemed like an eternity, by which point he was just barely managing to hold off panic, before finally heading back up again. It dead ended at a wooden floor. Natalie pushed on it, and another trap door swung open above them. "Where are we now?" she mused, pulling her employer and Turcotte up, "We're in another cabin somewhere, but I..."

"It's the Ellisons' old cabin," Adrian realized. He recognized its parameters even having never seen in from the inside. So there had been something going on in there the other night after all. "And it looks like someone's been living in here since then."

He grimaced at numerous cans and bottles carelessly thrown everywhere throughout the cabin. "Looks like we just missed whoever it was," Natalie pointed at the wide open front door, "He must have heard us coming and ran."

"_Or perhaps someone knew we were coming and tipped him off_," Adrian thought to himself. He had spent some time getting into the radiation suit; if someone in his group was guilty, they'd have ample time to give whoever had been in the cabin advance warning. "What have we here?" he approached a table. Wiring and mechanical parts were on it, although he could tell by the way they were lying there that there had been more, and whoever had been in the cabin had taken the rest with him when he'd fled.

"Hmm," with a frown, Turcotte examined them closely. "You're not going to like me saying this, Mr. Monk," he told the detective, "But I think whoever was in here was building a bomb."

"You mean...?" Natalie visibly shuddered.

"I'm afraid so," Turcotte nodded grimly, "These parts here are classic pieces of a standard homemade explosive device."

"The sheriff did say copper wiring had been stolen in town earlier in the week," Adrian remarked, "Now we probably know what for." He trudged to the dusty window and stared out at Breckman Lake and the town beyond, "Let's just hope he didn't get to finish it. There's so many places he could plant it and do damage here."

* * *

"Really? A bomb, you think?" Stottlemeyer gravely asked them later. True to what the TV had said, the sun had come out after noon, and everyone was trudging back along the path to the fairgrounds again for the autograph signings.

"That's what it looks like, Captain," Adrian nodded grimly, "You find anything else at your end?"

"The tunnel comes out behind the grandstand by the racetrack," Disher told him, "It's in a blind spot, so the killers could have easily slipped in with no one noticing. We'll show it to you the next chance we get."

"Looks like they beefed up security," Jack Sr. commented as they approached the front gate, which was now manned by a solid line of security guards and state police, with a metal detector now set up.

"Yes, I convinced Dr. Atherton to put as many people on duty as he could spare to get," Dwight told him, "And I contacted the county for additional help as well. We certainly don't want another bloodbath. Just us," he told the guard at the metal detector, who nodded and deactivated it for them.

"Uh, if I may," Turcotte tapped one guard on the shoulder, "Spread the word to look for a guy who might look like this," he handed him a drawing he'd made of Leo Kashner, "It's possible he might be behind some of what's been happening. We think..."

"What is that!?" Harold abruptly shouted. Adrian's nemesis stormed over to a booth, where children were throwing water balloons at a wooden head that looked very much like Harold. In fact, the sign above it said, SPLASH HAROLD AND WIN A PRIZE. "What the hell is this supposed to be!?" he screamed at the operator.

"Oh look, the real Harold Krenshaw," the operator snickered, prompting loud boos from the patrons, "Why don't you step right up and try your luck on yourself? Take a shot..."

With an enraged roar, Harold swung wildly at him, connecting square in the man's face. "GET OUT OF HERE!" he shouted at the customers, waving his arms like a scarecrow to make them leave the area, "GET OUT, GET OUT, GET OUT!"

He seized a stick from the ground and started smashing at the replica of his face until security ran over and started carrying him away. "Nice, good effort, boys," Adrian commended them, "Do whatever you want with him, he's all yours."

"Adrian," Dr. Bell frowned at him disapprovingly.

"Well, you saw what he was doing there," the detective protested.

"Adrian Monk," another nearby booth operator raised her hand, "Come on and try this out."

"Uh," Adrian walked over and observed a large table with the unconnected pieces of no fewer than eight puzzles laid out. "Let's see how quickly you can put these all together," the operator challenged him, "It'll be a big draw for this if you set a time for people to try and beat."

"Well..."

"Go on, Mr. Monk; you'll be good at it," Wendy encouraged him.

"Yeah," Max agreed, "This is sort of your specialty, right?"

"I, uh, guess so. Well, why not?" Adrian scanned over all the puzzle pieces, trying to mentally determine their shapes. "On your mark, "the operator hefted a hammer, "Set, go!"

She rang a bell. Adrian began rapidly assembling each puzzle. In a matter of three minutes and twenty-four seconds, he had accomplished the daunting feat. "Amazing, great job!" the operator commended him, recording the time on a blackboard in the back of the booth. The crowd that had gathered during the detective's attempt also gave him a rousing ovation.

"It's, well, a blessing, I guess," Adrian conceded, "But my brother here, he's the real expert."

He gestured at Ambrose. "Uh, well, he's just..." the instruction manual writer stammered, embarrassed.

"OK then, let's see if you can do even better than the world's most famous detective," the operator took out eight additional unassembled puzzles and dumped the boxes' contents on the table.

"Uh, well, um..."

"Of course he will," Jack Jr. eagerly dragged his half brother to the table, "On your mark, get set, GO, Ambrose!"

"Well I..." Ambrose was drowned out as the operator rang the bell again. Shrugging, he set about assembling all the puzzles himself-and managed to accomplish the feat even faster, in two minutes and seventeen seconds, officially. The crowd gave him an even louder ovation, making Ambrose shuffle about uncomfortably.

"Hey," Dr. Atherton came running up through the crowd, now wearing headsets much like Marci's the night before, "What's going on here?"

"Oh, nothing worth noting," Adrian told him, "Harold just proved why he still has a long way to go till he's cured, and Ambrose and I are apparently world-class puzzle players, that's all."

"Oh," Atherton frowned, "Well, you're all still a bit early; there's still ten more minutes to the signings, so I guess...what the hell is that!?"

Adrian heard it too; the loud revving of engines coming up the road. With loud yells, a biker gang roared into sight. "Uh, I, I don't really think they have passes to get in here, do they?" he asked his father-in-law nervously.

Any answer Dwight might have made was rendered moot as the bikers swarmed through the gate, overrunning the security team. "Hey, looks like a party going on here!" the apparent leader of the gang shouted to his associates, looking around the midway, "We love parties, don't we boys!?"

"YEAH!" came the shout from the other bikers.

"Well then, let's help ourselves and have some fun!" the leader revved his engine loudly and tore right towards Adrian's group. They hastily scattered in all directions. Adrian himself rushed towards the safety of the carousel, watching with disdain as the bikers drove madly through the midway, snatching items off of concession stands and knocking over collapsible merchandise tents. "Stop them, someone!" he cried out to anyone who cared to listen, "They're committing blasphemy against God in heaven by doing this! Someone make them clean up...!"

A wild cry rose up behind him. One of the bikers was charging towards him, yelling at the top of his lungs and waving a stolen loaf of French bread wildly like a nun-chuck. The detective broke into another run. A thick set of bushes was ahead of him on the left. It was as good a refuge as any, he thought, and the best he could come up with on short notice. Taking a deep breath, he dove in the bushes head-first. Luck was with him, as the biker didn't follow, choosing instead to let out a victory yell and pop a wheelie before speeding off towards several of his cronies who were ransacking a pizza stand. The detective sighed in relief and stood up to brush himself off...

...when suddenly an arm reached out of the bushes and seized his wrist. "Monk, get down!" hissed a desperate, familiar voice.

"Hey, what are you...!" Adrian was so taken by surprise by this turn of events that he was yanked back down into the bushes before he could mount a defense. "Let go of me, I'm not...oh my God," he breathed, seeing that, above all logical chance, he was once again face to face with Linda Fusco.


	8. Mr Monk Meets Tony Shalhoub

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The depiction of the actors who portray our heroes in regards to their actual real world thoughts and viewpoints is done from a fictional standpoint, and any actually accurate portrayal is entirely coincidental.

* * *

Two years in prison had clearly taken a toll on the once vibrant Linda: she had visibly lost about thirty pounds or so since Adrian had last seen her, and her face was pale and sunken. And it appeared she hadn't bathed in a good long while, which Adrian supposed was to be expected when someone had apparently broken out of prison; Jack Jr.'s appearance in his apartment after escaping himself earlier in the year had proved that much. Still, the very fact she was now standing before him was a complete shock. "Linda..." was all he was able to say.

"Monk, listen, you've got to get out of here, out of this town, right now," the former realtor pleaded with him, "There's a plot against your life!"

"Linda..." he mumbled again, trying to wrap some kind of sense around the whole thing.

"Come on, Monk, snap out of it!" she begged him, "He knows I'm here; I knew he was looking at me after I heard...!"

"Monk, there you are, what's...?" came the captain's sudden voice behind him. Adrian had a distinct feeling what was going to happen next when Stottlemeyer saw who he was with. There was a moment of abrupt silence behind the detective, before he heard Stottlemeyer's low growl: "You!"

"Leland," she flashed a weak, nervous smile.

"YOU!" Stottlemeyer roared murderously.

"All right, yes, you have every right to be upset, Leland; I manipulated you for my own ends and betrayed everything we had together, and for that I'm sorrier than words can say!" Linda pleaded with him, tears rolling down her eyes, "I didn't realize what we had until after Monk exposed me; the guilt of what...!"

"YOU!" the captain wasn't going to give her a listen. "GUARD!" he shouted towards one in the distance.

"Leland, no, don't; I have something to tell you that you need to know about!" she pleaded.

"And you think I want to hear anything else you have to say!?" Stottlemeyer yelled right in her face, "You tricked me plain and simple, woman; I won't stand for any more tricks, period!"

"This isn't a trick, I swear on my life!" she shrieked in desperation, "I overheard a plot to kill Monk in prison; I broke out to warn..."

"You!" came another abrupt shout from behind the detective. It was Jared this time, and he was staring at Linda with pure hatred. "What is she doing here!?" he demanded harshly to his father.

"I have no idea, Jared," Stottlemeyer shook his head firmly, "She claims she's got..."

"And you're willing to listen to her!?" his son leaned right in his face, "You brought her up here, didn't you!?"

"What...that's...!" Stottlemeyer sputtered for an appropriate response to this abrupt accusation. At that moment, there was the roar of another engine as another biker zoomed by, a large metal pipe in hand. The next few moments happened in a complete blur to Adrian: Jared abruptly reached out and grabbed the pipe off the befuddled biker, then with an enraged bellow lunged at Linda. Her scream of fright was quickly silenced as the captain's son started raining down severe blows on her. Stottlemeyer himself was so stunned that it took him close to thirty seconds to snap back to reality. "Jared, come on, stop it, stop it now!" he demanded.

But Jared paid him no heed and continued whaling away at Linda until she collapsed into a bloody heap on the ground. "I won't stand for her here, period!" he snarled savagely to his father.

"Jared, I did not invite her up here; do you really think I'd risk my badge taking someone out of prison!?" the captain was stunned at how events were now turning for him.

"Why not; you risked a marriage trying to prove a stupid little point that was wrong in the first place!" Jared wasn't listening to him, "And you keep out of this, Monk!" he pointed sharply at the detective when he tried to intercede on the captain's behalf, "I know what you're up to!" he snarled right in his father's face, "You knew Mom was coming up here, you wanted to spite her, so you visited the devil woman in prison," he gestured at the bleeding and out cold Linda, "and you gave her whatever she needed to get out and get up here so the two of you could continue your filthy love affair to spit in Mom's face! Don't deny it; I'm not as stupid as you think I am!"

Stottlemeyer stammered unintelligible lines in shock. "Well, what's this about me?" came the most unwelcome sound of Karen's voice right behind them. Adrian sighed and turned right into the familiar camera lens. "This really is a private a private matter, Karen," he said as calmly as he could, "Isn't there something else you can film at...?"

"He broke the devil woman out of prison!" Jared told his mother, gesturing at Linda again, "He just never stops his stupid campaign against everything we had when we were a family!"

"Jared, that's not...!" Stottlemeyer desperately tried to salvage a still-disintegrating situation.

"Don't talk to me, all right!?" his son snapped murderously at him, "You've just lost that right for good, you understand me!"

"But he really didn't..." Adrian tried to intercede.

"Shut up Monk, you're no better than him!" the boy angrily told him off before storming off. "Well, Leland, what have you to say for yourself?" his ex-wife walked towards him, her camera trained on Linda's motionless body.

"Turn the camera off, Karen," the captain said quietly but firmly, "This is not for everyone to know about."

"Oh really? Well, my agreement to film this festival with Mr. Ellison was that I had free access to anything and everything that happened," she told him coolly, a confident and triumphant smile crossing her lips.

"I said turn it off right now and delete what you're shooting!" rage was building up on Stottlemeyer's face again.

"This is not what it looks like, I assure you Karen," Adrian added, stunned himself on how things had gone south so quickly, "Jared wouldn't let us explain the truth, and the truth is..."

"The truth is, Monk, if you force me to stop filming this, you're violating my right to free speech," she pointed a finger right in his face, "Or is it because you don't want your squeaky clean imagine ruined? Which is it, really?"

"Actually, Karen, it's because what you're doing now constitutes abuse of power," Adrian frowned at her, "That camera doesn't make you a God here, and it certainly doesn't give you the right to impose your vision on everything here."

"Neither does you being the star of this festival make you above reproach, Monk," there was a murderous glare of her own as she leaned towards him, "If you and Leland were in fact conspiring to screw me over with Little Miss Perfect down there on the ground, everyone will know about it, mark my words. And, I'm warning you..."

"What's going on over...oh my God!" a panicked Dwight rushed over to Linda's prostrate form, "Someone get an ambulance, quick!" he shouted at the nearest booth operator. "What happened?" he asked his son-in-law.

"Leland brought it on her," Karen smirked as she told the producer, "That's all you need to know."

Stottlemeyer let out an enraged roar, and it took all of Adrian's strength to hold the captain back from attacking her. "Mrs. Marshall, didn't I ask you to film over at the interview queues!?" Dwight told her irritatedly.

"All in good time, Dwight; you did say I had free reign wherever I wanted to film," she told him. When her superior continued to frown at her, however, she grumbled, "All right, I'll get some footage," and walked away, brushing past Marsha as she chased after the medical crews now rushing over to Linda. "Dear God!" Adrian's mother-in-law gasped at the former realtor's severe condition, "What happened to her!?"

"It all happened a little too quickly," Adrian was still numb about the whole thing. He explained to his in-laws the events of the last few minutes. "How'd she get past security in the first place?" Dwight was puzzled by this factor, "I swear this place was buttoned up tight since this morning...over here," he waved to an ambulance crew wheeling a stretcher.

"Not if she slipped in during the middle of the night," Adrian surmised, pulling out a wipe to mop up Linda's blood from the ground as she was hoisted onto the stretcher.

"What's going on?" Natalie had heard the commotion as well and was running over. Adrian repeated everything again. "How'd Linda get in here, then?" Natalie mumbled in equal amazement when he was done, "And how'd she know we were here in the first place?"

"Well, this festival has been publicized heavily, so it stands to reason it was well-known even in prison," her employer mused as the ambulance drove away, "It's too bad she had to be knocked out before she could say anything about what she knew."

"Come on Monk, you can't expect to believe a word that ditch witch says anymore," Stottlemeyer grumbled bitterly, "It was all going to be some kind of trick to get herself back into our good graces, and then when our backs were turned, wham, the knife goes right into our backs."

"I'm not so sure, Captain," Adrian shook his head, "She seems to know something; I could tell it in her eyes that she was desperate to tell us whatever she knew. I don't think someone who was lying would be acting that way. And everything that's happened so far would easily fit a plot against me, albeit a strangely executed one. Maybe when she comes to in the hospital we can get whatever she was going to say out of her."

"_If_ she comes to," the captain now looked crestfallen. "I can't believe seeing her would set him off like that," he mumbled out loud, dismayed, "I didn't know Jared had that much pent-up hate for her...so much hate for...does he really not trust me that much to not let me have a side of the story?"

"Well," Marsha put an arm around him, "I may not claim to know too much, but my guess is that he's not really mad at you or Ms. Fusco as much as the fact that Ms. Fusco represents what probably the worst memory of his life, that being you and his mother separating (Adrian at the moment couldn't help wondering how ironic and convenient it was that Karen had been present to witness Linda be silenced. If he didn't know any better, he could very well assume...no, he'd better not assume, he thought quickly, remembering how disastrously things had gone the last time Karen had appeared to be a murder suspect; better, he knew, to wait for proof positive to come along). "My guess is, he's never really had a chance to vent for that, and seeing Ms. Fusco gave him an outlet-albeit a poorly used outlet-to release those pent-up feelings."

"But what if he means what he says about never trusting me again?" Stottlemeyer's eyes were watering, "I can't live with myself if that's how he thinks of me now."

"Oh I don't think it'll come to that," the grief counselor assured him, "Probably given time, he'll have let go of all the negative emotions and be calmer again."

"We can always page him if you'd like on the PA and arrange it so the two of you can work it out," Dwight offered.

"Thanks, but that's probably not a good idea," Stottlemeyer shook his head reluctantly, "The last time I tried that, it didn't work out well at all."

"Well anyway, Mr. Monk," Natalie was clearly eager to change the suspect, 'Randy told me to tell you he'd like to show you where the tunnel comes out at."

"Yes, right, certainly," Adrian fell into line behind her. He grimaced at the sight of the damage the bikers had done to the fairgrounds: booths had been overturned, and food and litter were scattered everywhere. "Uh, I hope we can call HazMat to help out with this," he prodded his father-in-law, "Otherwise it looks like it'll take a decade or so to get this back to normal."

"Oh, probably won't take that long, Adrian," Dwight still seemed comparatively upbeat about the circumstances. They all wound there way over to the bleachers alongside the horse track, where Disher was standing and waving at them. "What took you so long?" he asked as they approached, "I sent Natalie out the moment they threw the bikers out of here."

"We, uh, had some difficulties, Randy; very personal difficulties," Adrian said quickly, gesturing towards the captain and putting a finger to his lips to warn him to keep quiet for the captain's sake. Disher nodded, understanding. "Well, anyway, Monk, the captain, Sharona, and I came out right about here this morning," he pointed to an area behind the bleachers. The lieutenant trudged over to a spot of dead-looking sod next to an electrical junction box and lifted up another trap door with his foot. "Nice and isolated, off the usual paths in here, and after dark, no one would be able to see anything," he proclaimed, gesturing around at the lack of lights near the bleachers.

"And with hundreds and thousands of people around here, it would be easy for anyone to slip away in the crowds," Adrian mused, staring down the tunnel, "Especially if they moved quickly."

"Wait a minute," Natalie was looking past the tunnel. Adrian saw them too; the Professor and Ike, still looking glum from the loss of their comrade in bummery, perched on a bleacher crossbeam and staring blankly at the ground. "Hey," she waved them down, prompting Adrian to slap his hand over his face; why she wanted to treat these men so well he'd never understand. "Are you two feeling any better today?" she asked them sympathetically.

"As good as anyone who just lost a second compadre in a year can be," Ike rued, "Tell me you're making some progress in finding who did Reggie in?"

"Well, Mr. Monk's looking in on it, and we'll let you know," Natalie glanced back at her employer, forcing him to nod reluctantly. "Uh, gentlemen, if I may ask," he inquired, making sure to stay well away from them, "How exactly did you make it up here? I certainly don't recall either of you owning a car."

"We hopped a train back in San Francisco that took us up to Redding," the Professor explained, blowing his nose, "Then we hitchhiked here to Breckman Lake."

"And how exactly did you get the money for your hotel room?"

"We set up a car wash near the Embarcadero," Ike told him, taking a tissue of his own from his colleague, "Pulled in enough that we needed in three weeks."

"I see, so people were willing to...no, better not...what I'm going to ask, you, you do have your room cleaned regularly, don't you, like, say, four times a day at least?"

"Mr. Monk," Natalie glared at him disapprovingly.

"Well it's only common sense," he argued, "for their benefit as well as the other guests. If they haven't, I can easily call the hotel staff and set up a timetable for..."

"Hey there," Julie had arrived and was waving at the bums. This perked the two of them up. "Well hello there, "the Professor greeted his old friend, "I was hoping you'd be here if your mother was."

"I wouldn't miss this, you know," she shook his hand (Adrian made a mental note to do what he could to make her get a full-fledged shower afterwards, and set up a session with Dr. Bell for her, since as far as he could tell, something was definitely off in her mind). "Say hello to Benjy," she waved her friend forward to meet the bums, "He started the whole show in the first place; I told him all about you."

"Benjy Fleming," he too eagerly shook both homeless men's hands to Adrian's consternation, "Yeah, I'm glad to meet you guys as well. If they give us another season, you'll probably get on the air there, so if you've got some kind of phone number or address, I can have Julie let you know when it'll air, probably around Christmas or so." He turned to the detective. "Dr. Atherton told us to let you know they're ready for you at the convention center for the autograph sessions, Mr. Monk."

"OK then, autographs are good," Adrian quickly set off in a hustle, eager to get away from the bums.

"Listen, if you two are still upset," Natalie told the two bums behind him, "Mrs. Ellison here is a grief counselor; she'd be happy to listen to you if you need someone to listen to you."

"That, that would be fine, but I'm sure she has a client list a mile long at the moment," Adrian called loudly over his shoulder.

"Actually, it would be an honor," Marsha nodded in accession. She sat down on the crossbeam next to the two men. "Now, how long did you know your friend?"

Adrian rolled his eyes. Why was everyone blocking out his perfectly sensible line of view on the homeless men? Something told him he really didn't want to find out, as he'd be made to look ridiculous again, no doubt.

A long line was forming at the convention center when he approached it. The crowd screamed at his presence, triggering a line of guards to step to the side of the detective and allow him safe passage to the door. Atherton was pacing back and forth in front of the center, an equally impatient-looking Sharona with him. "Where have you been!?" he greeted the detective with a deep amount of impatience, "You're ten minutes late, and everyone's starting to get antsy here!"

"We, uh, we got held back by a couple of seemingly critical issues," Adrian glanced around, "You, uh, did get rid of all the bikers, right?"

"We tossed the last one out eight minutes ago," a guard told him.

"Everything's safe now," Atherton assured him. "Captain," he stared at the approaching Stottlemeyer with definite disdain, "Jared was quite enraged when he came past here five minutes ago. Something about you stabbing him in the back?"

"He jumped to conclusions about something that just happened, Professor," Stottlemeyer gulped uncomfortably, "I didn't get to tell him the whole story. Where's he now? I'd really like..."

"He left the fairgrounds," Atherton seemed to be smirking, Adrian thought, "I hope you can work this out somehow; if he was my son, I wouldn't do anything to make him that upset. But anyway," he turned back to Adrian and opened the door, "I hope you like signing autographs, Monk, because that's what you'll be doing for the next hour or so. And, I may add, you won't be doing it alone. Adrian Monk, meet Tony Shalhoub."

"Hello for real, Adrian Monk," the Emmy-winning actor walked out of the convention center, dressed, quite fittingly, exactly like Adrian, and shook the detective's hand, "So good to actually meet you face to face."

"Indeed," Adrian gestured at Natalie for a wipe. He had long known Shalhoub had been the perfect person to play him; unlike the previous, aborted attempt to turn his life story into entertainment, Shalhoub had perfectly grasped what the detective's life was supposed to be about, and hit every single right note-of course, it certainly didn't hurt either that the two of them looked almost exactly alike, either. "Come on in," the actor gestured him inside, "We've got enough autograph paper to cover the whole state of California...and it looks like we're going to need it," he glanced back hesitatingly at the crowd outside, now clapping in anticipation.

"Is everyone else in the cast here?" Adrian scanned the tables set up along the back wall of the convention center.

"All the main cast," Atherton rushed in front of him, "We were quite lucky to get pretty much everyone..."

"I see," Adrian nodded, watching his colleagues greet their portrayers (Stottlemeyer giving his a warm "Hello, Clarice" in greeting). "OK then, have a seat everyone-your names are right next to your chairs-we'll be letting everyone in momentarily," Atherton gestured to the autograph table.

"How about us?" Julie raised her hand, looking a little melancholy to see that there wasn't any placard with her name on it.

"Uh, well, actually we hadn't really thought..." Atherton started to shake his head.

"That's my fault, actually," Dwight did look rather guilty, "I didn't think you might have wanted to as well until it was too late. But actually," he turned to her and Benjy, "I've got a better job for the two of you. If you'd stand duty at the door and take the tickets for everyone and direct them to the right place for the autographs they want, I'm sure we can pay out some extra money for you."

"Great," she broke into a big smile.

"In that case, let's get the two of you some name tags-and some extra security so you don't get mobbed as well-and we'll get the show on the road," the producer took them towards another table by the restrooms. Adrian took his seat next to Shalhoub at the very end of the table and straightened his name plate. He glanced around. Felt ropes created several sets of lines approaching the autograph table and formed an exit lane deeper into the conference center, where smaller tables hawked Atherton's book, more show DVDs, refreshments, and various other merchandise. On the large screen on the wall opposite himself, the episode detailing Adrian's first encounter with the Davenports was playing. Although Adrian hadn't found it funny at the time at all, he managed a small chuckle as Shalhoub caught the bride's garter and flailed desperately, realizing what he was holding. "That was pretty fun to film, yes," Shalhoub told him, straightening out his own placard as well, "It's what actually happened, right?"

"Most of the scripts you get, they are pretty much as-was," Adrian told his TV counterpart, "Every now and then, something'll get embellished, but my father-in-law would tell you that we aim for conformity to the facts as much as possible. So, do you happen to have a favorite episode?"

"That's pretty hard, actually," Shalhoub scratched his head, "So many of them have been top notch. I'd say the one where you lost your memory was a pretty good one. And it was nice doing the one where you got blinded as well; it was nice to do a darker show once in a while. The only problem I'm worried about," he looked the detective square in the eye, "Is that from now on people might only see me as you. I am a serious performer after all."

"Well, I certainly hope they can look beyond me for your sake," Adrian agreed; he certainly didn't want to be responsible for essentially ruining a good actor's career, "Maybe if they do another film about those Guys in Black Suits, or whatever the name was, that'll counterbalance me."

"Then again, maybe it's already too late in some respects," Shalhoub was tapping down the autograph papers set up in front of himself, "Because increasingly, I've found a good part of you's rubbed off on me as the show's gone by. I can't help finding myself doing the little things that you do (he was unconsciously straightening his tie obsessively as he said this). Maybe it's just the power of who you are drawing me in, perhaps."

"Just, just as long as you have an outlet, that'll help," Adrian told him, "I think David Ruskin's problem when he tried doing me was that he centered only on me, and that let him get swallowed up, so those film roles you keep taking, they should keep you from going crazy."

He tamped down his own cards. "I'm, I'm also sorry about Stanley, if that was his name, right?" he looked at Shalhoub, who nodded, knowing what the detective was talking about, "I got chills when I heard what happened to him, just like my real Dr. Kroger..."

"It did take us a while to get over it," Shalhoub admitted somberly, "Is that the new psychiatrist up there?" he pointed at Dr. Bell at the other end of the table.

"Certainly is; Dr. Neven Bell's the name," Adrian said, "He's probably the next best I could..."

He was cut off as the doors to the conference center swung open. He gulped to see dozens, possibly hundreds of people surging forward towards the table-as well as Karen coming forward alongside them filming them for the documentary. He hoped she could keep her distance for this event; clearly, he could tell, the captain was still too upset over what had just happened to be accommodating of her. Fortunately, though, Karen kept her distance from the table and filmed the first throngs approaching for their autographs. "Adrian Monk," a nerdy man-perhaps a long-lost relative of Kevin's, the detective thought offhandedly-bounded up to the table and wildly shook Shalhoub's hand, "I've waited for this moment for..."

"Uh, he's Adrian Monk," Shalhoub pointed at the detective, "I'm Tony Shalhoub."

"Oh. Well," the man jumped in front of Adrian and pumped his arm vigorously, "Like I said, I've been waiting for this moment for years; Chris is the name, huge, huge fan..."

"OK, for Chris then," Adrian picked up a pen after he'd wiped his hands down and began slowly writing out his autograph on the topmost piece of paper. "There you go," he handed it to Chris, "Just like...wait, wait, bring it back, I don't think I dotted the i in Adrian right."

But Chris had already moved on to Shalhoub next to him. A pair of ditzy-looking college age twins, each blowing bubble gum, were next. "Well, Mr. Monk, we're, like, so totally glad to meet you," the one on the left gushed, "We're, like, your biggest fans and all that."

"As I'm sure lots of other people here might say," Adrian mused, glancing back at the line, which still stretched clean out the door.

"But we are, pure and simple, my man; never miss a show," the one on the right argued, "So how about two autographs, like, one for each of us, to double our pleasure?"

"Well, if, if you say so," Adrian slowly cranked out another autograph. Then crossed it out when he was almost finished and started again. Then crossed that one out as well. Two of them would clearly be asking a lot. Then he noticed the copying machine in the corner behind him. Holding up his hand at the twins, he hustled over and printed out a copy of his signature. "Here you go, ladies," he handed them to them.

"I get the original," the one on the left grabbed for it.

"No, I do!" her twin seized it off her.

"No, I do!"

"No, I do!"

"Move along, please, ladies," a nearby guard pushed them down the table for the next signature. A familiar face was next in line. "Dianne, hello," the detective greeted Trudy's old college roommate, "I guess it's back to your maiden name now...?"

"Eventually, but for right now I'm still Dianne Brooks until the divorce is fully finalized," she told him. Adrian figured that wouldn't take long, given her now ex-husband was serving two consecutive life sentences for murdering the college nurse and trying to kill his wife. "Could you sign mine, 'To my biggest fan?'" Dianne requested of him.

"Liar!" shouted a balding man in line behind her, "I'M his biggest fan!"

"No you're not, buddy!" an old woman behind him yelled at him, "I am!"

A shouting match broke out among the people in line before the guards came over to settle things out. Adrian tried to block them out as he signed his autograph for Dianne. "So, uh, everything back to normal after last night?" he asked her.

"More or less, but we're probably going to barricade the door after dark until this is all over and done with," Dianne shivered openly, "Sherry and I locked the door and hid in the bathroom until we were sure the killers outside were gone; seeing what they ended up doing, we had good reason. You have any idea who they were?"

"We're working on leads, but nothing concrete yet, I'm afraid," Adrian again crossed out his signature and rewrote it. "There, that's good," he handed it to her, "And may I introduce Tony Shalhoub, who plays me on TV; Mr. Shalhoub, Dianne Brooks from the college reunion episode."

"That was one I liked filming," Shalhoub shook Dianne's hand with a smile, "So he really did defrost the refrigerator every weekend?"

"And sometimes more often than that," Dianne laughed at the memory, "I must commend you on doing him so well; you deserved all those Emmies, really. Watching you, I feel like I'm watching Adrian for real."

"Everyone tells me that too," Shalhoub finished writing his own autograph for her, "It's getting so much I can't take a simple walk down the street without being thanked for doing so well as him. Sometimes it's just..."

Just then there came a shoving in line from behind Dianne. Harold, livid, pushed his way right up to Adrian. "I hate you," he glowered at the detective, "I know what this festival is; you intended to spite me all through the week; that water balloon booth is just the tip of the iceberg, isn't it!?"

"What's the matter, Harold; jealous!?" a child of about ten in line behind him taunted him. The whole crowd burst into laughter. Harold, however, was not amused at all. "SHUT UP!" he bellowed at the crowd, silencing them. Turning back to Adrian with a murderous glare, he growled, "You think you're going to get away with this, don't you, Adrian? Well you can take my council seat, but you won't take my self-respect. So the water balloon game was the last straw; mark my words, you will pay for all this in the end. Out of my way, people," he shoved his way back through the line, "Out of my way!"

The crowd booed him all the way to the door. "What's his problem?" Dianne frowned.

"Oh, Harold's just a little upset to realize he's not the center of the universe after all," Adrian smirked, "And I think he's having another hypno-therapy relapse, too. But don't worry, he's can't cause any harm; he's all just bluster...I think," he added tentatively. After all, Harold had good reason to want to see him dead if Linda's claim of a plot was accurate...

"Oh well," Dianne shrugged, putting his and Shalhoub's autographs in his pockets, "Thank you so much again, Adrian...my hero."

She blew him a kiss and moved on down the line for more autographs. It was then there came more pushing from the line. Adrian looked up and sighed to see the bikers were back. "Hello Monk," the leader shoved aside the bald man now at the front, "How about signing your old John Hancock for me; just sign it to Slasher O'Callahan."

"Slasher O'Callahan?" Shalhoub frowned.

"Hey, it's my handle, and don't knock it, unless you want your own head knocked," Slasher told the actor off.

"Excuse me, you," Dwight elbowed his way through the line, frowning, "I thought you gentlemen were asked to leave the fairgrounds!?"

"We bought tickets like everyone else," Slasher sneered at him, holding his own ticket up as proof, "You can't throw us out with tickets."

"And you also can't butt in line!" the bald man shouted at him, "I've been waiting here all morning for a chance to...!"

Another biker put him in a headlock to shut him up. Not wanting a free-for-all to break out, Adrian hastily scribbled out an autograph for Slasher, trying to ignore the fact that this signature was definitely was malformed. "Thank you, Monk," Slasher patted him too hard on the back, "Don't be upset with us," he told the crowd behind him, "The boys and I are fans of the show too; we just want preferential treatment, that's all."

He glanced up and down the autograph table, "Well, well, everyone else's signing for their fans too. And look who we have here," he strode over to where Sharona was seated (by herself, as her portrayer had apparently not been able to make it) and glared her down, "Someone who definitely doesn't belong here."

"I beg your pardon!?" she snapped at him.

"You know what we're saying, sister," another biker leaned over Slasher's shoulder with a glare of his own, "You don't deserve to be here after you stabbed Monk here in the back. Am I right, folks!?" he shouted to the crowd, "Who else thinks Miss Super Nurse should be sent home packing for being a backstabbing coward!?"

Adrian was appalled to see a good portion of the crowd applaud in approval. "Just as I thought," Slasher snickered, "You should take the hint and take a hike-permanently, sweetheart."

"How dare you!" every vein in Sharona's face was throbbing with anger as she jumped to her feet, "You don't know the whole story! If I could...!"

"Do we even need to hear the whole story!?" a burly bearded biker told her off, "We know the basic facts; you abandoned Monk because you hated him and used your sleaze ball husband as the bait to get away from him. That's cowardice if I ever saw it. So I think it's time somebody taught her a lesson about betrayal, don't you, Slasher?"

"My pleasure," Slasher was hefting tomatoes from a produce stand, "Open wide, Nurse Fleming."

He flung them at Sharona, just missing. The largest biker in the gang jumped over the table and grabbed hold of her before she could leave. Adrian didn't like the way much of the crowd was now getting riled up and cheering; if he'd known that much venom was being held against his former assistant, he might not have asked her to come in the first place. "Everybody, listen!" he rose up, "This isn't the...!"

"Full salvo!" Slasher and several other bikers started hurling even more produce at the helpless nurse. Even more appalling, more than a few average people, yelling "Traitor!" and "Coward!", ran over to join them in their heinous act. The rest of the bikers held back the rest of Adrian's inner circle and security as they tried to break through to Sharona's aid. Adrian himself found himself pinned to the table by a hulking African-American biker with half his teeth missing. "You can't do this to her!" he shouted a defense at the man, "She doesn't deserve this!"

"From our point of view she sure does, Monk," the African-American biker sneered, laughing as one of his colleagues slammed a cake over the nurse's head, elliciting loud, sick applause from half the crowd, "She's had this coming for years. Yeah, the watermelon!" he cheered as his leader hefted one from the table, "Shove it down her throat, Slasher!"

"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Adrian cried out for reason.

"STOP IT!" another enraged voice rang out. The detective looked up to see Slasher taking a sharp blow square to the chest and drop the watermelon. "STOP IT!" a livid Benjy shoved several more bikers to the ground, kicking one that dared swing a punch against him. He grabbed a microphone off the table. "Just stop it!" he shrieked at the top of his lungs again, bringing the convention center to sudden silence. "All of you, just leave my mom alone!" he shouted, putting an arm around her, "I don't want to hear any of you calling her a coward, or a traitor, or anything like that again, or I'll...you just won't like what I'll do! Look, when she left Mr. Monk, she did what she felt was right. You don't have to like that, but don't any of you dare take your feelings out on her! You're the real cowards, so just leave her alone, OK!?"

The abrupt silence continued, deafening. "Come on Mom, you don't have to stay here if they won't treat you right," the boy told his mother, gently leading her towards the door, and leaning his head into her side when she broke down sobbing. The crowd parted like the Red Sea for them, closing up again when they were outside. Adrian stormed over for the microphone. "He's right," he growled at the crowd, "Just because you don't like that Sharona left me doesn't give you the right to do what some of you just did. So I want everyone who participated in that horrible scene I just saw to leave now. Especially you," he pointed a finger at the bikers, "I don't ever want to see any of you again, so just get out of here."

"Yeah, out of here, now," several security men started belatedly herding the bikers towards the door. Several dozen people, guilt now forming on their faces now that the situation had calmed down, also shuffled for the exit. Adrian took a deep breath and examined the mess before him where Sharona had been sitting. "Why?" he mused out loud, shuddering, "Why do they carry that much hate against her? I didn't hate her when she left; why does everyone else hate her?"

"They don't all hate her, Mr. Monk," Natalie tried to reassure him, but clearly the experience had shaken her too, "Not all them participated in this-not even half of them. I think I'd better have a word with her, though; I think she'll feel better if she heard I didn't like it either."

She hustled for the door. "OK, everyone step back, please," Dwight belatedly took control of the situation, "Step back please, we're going to take a ten minute break now. As my son-in-law said, anyone who threw things at Mrs. Fleming should leave now, or you will be prosecuted."

Several more people headed for the door, looking guilty as well. Against this tide, Ambrose pushed his way in. "Adrian," he walked over to his brother as the detective plopped down in his seat next to Shalhoub, "What happened in here? Why's Sharona...?"

"You don't want to know, Ambrose," Adrian shook his head firmly.

"That bad, huh?" Ambrose grimaced, "Say, have you seen Dad at all? Jack and I have been looking all over for him; I haven't seen him since the bikers scared us all off."

"Strange, I had thought he was with you?" Adrian frowned, "Well, he's got to be around here somewhere."

"I was thinking he might be in here," Ambrose glanced around the spacious convention center, "It's one of the last places we didn't look. "Dad?" he called out loud, hustling towards several book stands in the middle of the building. "Your real life brother, I presume?" Shalhoub asked the detective.

"That's Ambrose, all right," Adrian told him, "You'll, you'll probably get more chances to meet him this afternoon; he probably won't leave this building now that he's inside; that's right," he noticed the amazed look on the actor's face, "He really is that bad. And personally I..."

Suddenly there was a sharp blast as a rifle shout rang out right by his ear. To Adrian's horror, he saw Shalhoub cry out and topple backwards in his chair, blood spurting from his abdomen. Screams rang out from the people still in the building. The detective glanced upwards and just managed to catch the bright flash of a gun barrel withdrawing into the ceiling. The detective rushed over to his father-in-law, who also had seen it. "Where does that lead to where he's at!?" he shouted.

"Looks like he's up in the upstairs storage area; he could easily get down and out the back entrance from there! Seal off the building!" Dwight shouted at the security guards, running pell-mell in every direction with no apparent purpose, "I don't want anyone in or out before we get him into...Adrian where are you going!?"

Adrian barely heard him. He pushed his way through the screaming, frantic crowd towards the door. Maybe if he could beat the gunman to the back door, he could end whatever was going on at Monkstock once and for all. He made a hard right once outside and rushed through the masses of people streaming away from the building, trying to get to the rear entrance in time. As it was, he timed it just right, for no sooner did he turn the last corner than the back door slammed open and a figure clad in black from head to toe, just like Garrett had described the previous night, rushed out clutching the rifle. "Hold it!" Adrian launched himself at the gunman, knocking him over. He reached for the ski mask, but the gunman grabbed his hand and bit it. Adrian shrieked and shook his hand crazily, fearing it was now contaminated. This gave the gunman all the time he needed to barrel towards a blue Hummer parked nearby (taking very stiff strides all the way, confirming for Adrian that whoever it was was indeed wearing his stilts), dive through the driver's side window, and peel off just as security charged out the back door. They opened fire at the Hummer, but it was already out of range. None of that mattered to Adrian at the moment though. "Wipe, wipe, anybody a wipe!" he shrieked to anyone and everyone in the area, still waving his hand around wildly.

"What happened!?" Atherton came running up with a panicked Dwight on his heels, "Where'd he go!?"

"That way!" the detective gestured at the Hummer, going out the back gate of the fairgrounds and out of sight, "And you've got to take me to the hospital with Shalhoub; he bit me! I'm probably dying now; I could infect you too!"

"I think you're all right, Adrian," Dwight reassured him, "But what's going on here!?" his face contorted in shock and horror at what had just happened, "What is happening here at Breckman Lake!?"


	9. Brother of the Six-Fingered Man

"Here we go, nice and easy," the medics, looking weary from having to work overtime, tried to force Shalhoub, trying with more than a little success to walk towards the ambulance under his own power, onto a gurney. Adrian hustled up. "You, uh, feeling all right?" he asked his TV counterpart, feeling a bit guilty; he was certain the shooter had actually intended to take him out.

"I'm fine, really," Shalhoub told him, groaning as the medics pushed him down onto the gurney, pushing down hard on the injured abdomen, "He just winged me, really, whoever he was! I don't really need to..."

He was cut off as a young medic shoved an oxygen mask over his face. "He will be OK?" Adrian anxiously asked the head medic.

"It looks like it didn't hit any vital organs, so he should be good to go within forty-eight hours," the head medic assured him, "Just stay calm, Mr. Shalhoub, you're in good hands with us."

"That enhances my...OOOWWW!!" Shalhoub howled in pain as the ambulance door was accidentally opened on his head as the gurney was lifted up to be loaded in the back.

"You've got to take me too," Adrian tried climbing up into the ambulance, "The shooter bit me; I need to be in isolation, a total medical overhaul that doesn't involve needles...!"

"Let me take a look at that," the head medic looked at his hand, "I wouldn't worry about that, Mr. Monk; he barely even broke the skin," he assured the detective.

"But what if he had a cold!?" Adrian wasn't going to drop it, "I could be fatally infected at this very moment, a danger to the well-being of everyone here in this...!"

The ambulance's rear doors slammed shut on him as it pulled out for the hospital in Redding. Adrian shook his head. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Flemings standing under a tree next to the convention center, unnoticed by the crowd (perhaps thankfully). The detective felt he had to say something given what had happened before the shooting had started. He threaded his way through the crowd towards them. "I, uh, um," he cleared his throat nervously, "I don't approve of what happened in there at all. If you think you need protection from here on..."

"Is that what they really think of me?" Sharona's voice was very weak, and her eyes still moist, even though she'd managed to get most of the food stuffs off of herself by now, "Am I really that much of a pariah for them? If I'd known it would have come to this, maybe I would have thought twice before..."

"You're not a pariah," Adrian stated emphatically, reaching for her shoulder before noticing there were still a few tomato splotches there, "I never thought of you as one. Not when you brought me out of my stupor after four years without Trudy. I, I should probably let everyone know what I think; something tells me they'll listen to me."

"I don't know," she rued, "Something tells me there's just too much ingrained hate at work here to make much of a difference now."

"But what does it really matter what they think?" Benjy put his arm around his mother, "Mr. Monk cares, I care, and if you think well about what you've done for him, why should it make any difference what they think about you?"

"I guess none," she kissed him, "And even if not, I should feel lucky that I have you to stand by me."

"Sharona Fleming?" a middle aged woman wearing a show T-shirt was standing behind them now, "Big fan; I want you to know I heard what happened, and just wanted to tell you not to worry about it; just about everyone I've spoken with out here definitely would stand up for you if somebody tries to do that to you again."

"Thank you," the nurse flashed a smile as a smattering of applause from bystanders listening in rose up.

"Absolutely," another woman stepped forward, "You are the most important person in his life anyway. It's Natalie that should be given the treatment; she stole your rightful place in the first place."

"What about me!?" Natalie stepped forward out of the crowd from behind the speaker, glaring harshly.

"Yeah, you pushed his real right hand woman out of the way, you interloper!" another bystander shouted. Several more shouts rose up. Adrian knew he couldn't let another conflagration blow up. "Everybody, listen!" he raised his hands, prompting everyone to quiet down and turn to him. He breathed in relief; apparently they did all look up to him to respect whatever he said. "I don't care who you as fans like better," he gestured at both women, "But I don't want a war to break out here this week over who's better. So if you have a difference of opinion with someone else, don't fight over it, please, and I'm begging everyone, don't take your frustrations out on the one you don't like. How'd you like it if someone treated you that way? I know what it's like to be despised, and it's not pretty at all. So spread the word to everyone you meet; lay off Natalie and Sharona, and no brawls between their supporters, got it?"

Most of the crowd nodded and started to disperse. From among them, Jack Sr. finally came into view, looking winded. "What happened now?" he inquired, staring in shock at the ambulance.

"Where the hell have you been for the last ten minutes!!??" Sharona rolled her eyes in disgust.

"Hey, I met up with an old friend I knew on the trucking route that just happened to be attending this, and we went through that dark ride together, only the blasted ride broke down and left us stuck in the dark for five minutes," he explained gruffly, "Why, what's going on?"

Adrian laid it out for him. Jack looked pale. "He must have been aiming for you and missed," he agreed with the detective's analysis, gulping, "Oh boy, I probably should have forgotten everything and come over...if only those lousy bikers hadn't shown up, maybe I wouldn't have split off in the first place."

"Oh yeah, and the funny thing is that you were absent in the first place when we were all told when the autograph signings were going to be," the nurse glared him down suspiciously, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say there's a lot of evidence pointing to you as a suspect, especially if we can't find anyone to back up your story."

"OK, that's hitting below the belt, Mrs. Fleming!" Jack was deeply offended, "I can't believe you'd actually have the gall to suggest I would try to murder my own son! Why, pray tell, would I even try something like that, if you're so smart!?"

Before Sharona could lay out an explanation, the sheriff came running up. "Here you are, Monk," he told the detective, "I think you'd better come take a look at this."

"What, do you know who the shooter is?" Natalie asked him.

"We might, but it's something Monk should probably take a look at first," Wallace said, glancing uneasily at the detective. He started off for the rear gate. Adrian hustled to keep up. "You didn't answer me, Mrs. Fleming, why would I try to shoot the man who single-handedly turned my life around, huh!?" Jack demanded to the nurse, clearly determined to get an answer.

"Oh, maybe there's some things from your past you never told him about," she snorted with more than a little contempt, "Maybe you were a silent partner with your boss in his little moneymaking scheme, and what's happening here is connected with it. Or maybe you were making your own scheme while you were out on the road, and your cronies are trying to expose you, so you tried to kill Adrian to make sure he never finds out and exposes you."

"That is kind of stretching it, Mom," Benjy was shaking his head, dubious, "You might not like him, but I think he's earned our trust until we get solid proof it was him."

"See," Jack pointed at the boy, "If you can't take his word for it, who's can you take? Besides, he said very clearly you had promised to believe anything he said after that incident at the hotel. So what've you got, Sheriff?"

They had reached Wallace's cruiser by the gate. "OK, Monk, several bystanders got the Hummer's license plate as it was leaving," the sheriff opened the cruiser's door and gestured for the detective to step inside, "We ran it through the computer and got a quick match. The thing is, though, we got the rundown on your case as well, and I think you'd better take a look at what came up."

"What?" Adrian glanced at the computer screen on the dashboard. His brow furled. "Oh boy," he muttered.

"What?" Natalie tried leaning over his shoulder in turn, "Whose car is it?"

Adrian turned slowly towards her. "Gene," he said with bitterness in his voice, "_Nunn_."

* * *

"And we're sure this is in fact the six-fingered man's brother?" an amazed Stottlemeyer asked the sheriff. He and Disher had joined the detective, both women, and an eager-to-assist Jack Sr. with Wallace as he drove deep into the woods on the north side of Breckman Lake.

"I checked through the records myself," Adrian nodded slowly, "This is Frank Nunn's brother all right."

"Amazing," Disher mused. "Have you had any complaints about him before?" he asked the sheriff.

"Not really," Wallace told him, "From what I hear, Gene lives out here all by himself and doesn't come into town except for food. Here we are now."

He pulled to a stop in front of a low cabin that seemed to be undergoing serious decay. Adrian grimaced to see the yard--or at least what passed for a yard--covered with trash. "You need to arrest him for this," he goaded Wallace as he stepped out of the car, "Don't be afraid to be rough with him; anyone who keeps their house like this should be strung up and shot."

"We'll wait until we see what he knows," Wallace said patiently, walking towards the cabin...

And abruptly tripping over a wire strung between a pair of trees. An alarm started going off, and suddenly a large German shepherd bounded out of a hidden door under the porch and barreled towards the newcomers. Adrian quickly jumped up onto the cruiser's trunk as the dog was about to jump him. "Down, back, sit, heel!" he cried as it barked loudly at him, rearing up on its hind legs and snapping at his feet, "Shoot him, Sheriff...but make sure the blood doesn't go anywhere!"

A shot did in fact ring out--from a slot in the front door. "Who's out there!?" barked a gruff voice.

"The sheriff, Gene; we'd like a word with you," Wallace called out to him.

There was an audible sigh from the cabin. "Grover, sit!" Nunn barked at the dog, which immediately stopped going after Adrian and trotted back towards the cabin. The detective swiped at his pant legs just in case the dog had gotten hair on it, which luckily it hadn't. The door to the cabin creaked open. Gene Nunn slowly stuck his head out. He looked just as disheveled as his dwelling, with an unkempt beard and dirty clothes. "I had a feeling you'd be coming here some day, Adrian Monk," he said solemnly to the detective.

"So you know about what your brother did to his wife?" Disher asked him.

"Come on inside," Nunn gestured at the cabin, "I can explain everything."

"I'd, uh, rather not," Adrian said quickly, "Unless you've got a vacuum cleaner handy to take care of...some stuff" (even from a distance he could see the inside of the cabin was no cleaner than the outside).

"No electricity," Nunn shook his head, "You'll have to grin and bear it."

Adrian didn't know if he had it in himself to face so daunting a challenge. The best he could manage was standing in the doorway while everyone else went inside. He could smell something burning inside. "Is something baking?" he asked, staring at the sky to avoid looking at the cluttered mess inside.

"I'm a chemist for county pharmacies," Nunn said, "I cook up half the stuff they put on the shelves--and I do have a license to do so, so don't come down on me for that. Usually someone comes by once a week to pick this stuff up; the world's too sick to venture into anymore."

"Do you happen to own a blue Hummer, Gene?" Wallace asked him.

"Yeah, it was stolen about four nights ago," Nunn told him dryly.

"Why didn't you report it?" the sheriff questioned him, "We never got any report it was stolen."

"I told you, I've had enough with society," the hermit said bitterly, "I don't want them coming around up here."

"Well you're going to have to talk with us, Mr. Nunn," Stottlemeyer told him firmly, "Your car was just used by someone to get away from the scene of a crime in town--in fact he tried to shoot the guy who plays our friend Monk here on TV," gestured at the detective in the doorway, "In fact, this was at least the second attempt on his life this week that we know of. So if you know anything about who stole your car, I suggest you let us know about it."

"It was at three in the morning; I only woke up when I heard the engine start," Nunn told him, examining several of his concoctions now boiling on the stove, "I got off a couple of shots at him before he drove out of sight."

"Were you receiving any threatening mail from anyone lately?" Disher inquired.

"No, no one's bothered me since I moved here," the chemist shook his head, "So whoever the slime was, your guess would be as good as mine. Now if there aren't any more questions..."

"There are," Adrian spoke up loudly, still not looking right into the cabin, "And I think you know what they are, Mr. Nunn. So let's start with the most obvious one: did Frank tell you at any point who hired him to kill my wife?"

"Yeah, I knew that was coming, Monk. And no, Frank didn't. I only saw him once between the murder of your wife and his jump to Brazil, and he said nothing about who this Judge was, only that he was glad the guy had given him a big payday for planting the bomb on her car. I threw him out of my house after that; it's one thing to stab or shoot a guy in a dark alley, but to blow up an innocent woman--it disgusted me how low Frank had sunk by that point. But you have to understand one thing above anything else," he told them gruffly, raising a hand as if to counter an oncoming remark, "Frank was my brother. I may not have approved of the path he took in life, but we were flesh and blood. So I do forgive him for it, just like I forgave him for his other terrible crimes over the years."

"See, even he doesn't hold grudges," Jack muttered to Sharona.

"Shhhh!" she hissed at him, eager to hear whatever was going to come out next, if anything, uninterrupted.

"I read his file once I knew he was involved," Adrian told him, "He killed numerous people before he set his sights on Trudy. Were you involved in any of those, so we know?"

"I know what you're thinking, Monk; you think I could be part of this plot to kill you," the chemist stared him down sharply, "I abhor killing for money or pleasure. Sure, I shoot wildlife here, but that's to keep myself alive. Well I don't have any idea what's going on here with someone trying to kill you, so I have no answers for you there. But I do have a lot of other answers to the questions I know you want answered, so might as well give them to you. Have a seat, everyone."

"No thank you," Adrian shook his head and remained in the doorway. Everyone else took a seat on the couch. Nunn took a deep breath. "Frank and I were orphaned as children," he started explaining, "We grew up on the streets in L.A. together, trying to survive. Oh sure, we'd end up in orphanages every now and then, but we'd be tossed out once Frank assaulted whoever was in charge of each place. He always did have a horrible temper, thinking everyone was making fun of him for having that sixth finger even if they weren't saying it out loud. By the time we were nineteen, we'd sunken into extortion rackets and organized crime. For a while that's what I thought I wanted to do in my life; rising to the top like Tony Montana."

"What made you change your mindset?" Natalie asked him.

"I met a beautiful woman and fell in love with her," Nunn explained, "I know it sounds corny and cliched, but that's how it happened. I was bent on marrying her in the end, but Frank wasn't going to let me do it, not when he saw her as coming between us. Soon she told me she was getting anonymous threatening phone calls, and her car was smashed up. Frank kept denying it when I confronted him about it, but I knew it was him. The last straw came when he had her parents beaten up as a warning to keep away from me...are you all right there? You look like it was something personal I was saying."

"Oh, no, everything's all right, go on," Natalie told him, but Adrian could see the uncomfortable look on her face and knew the story was too similar to Paul Buchanan's repeated stalking of her in high school for her comfort.

"Anyway," Nunn continued, "I cornered Frank, we lost our tempers, and I told him I didn't care to see him anymore if he didn't stop; he said fine, if I wanted to ruin my life, go ahead, and stormed out. I only saw him about four times after that before he died, the last being right after your wife's death, Monk. And each time, I got more and more disgusted by how brutal and horrific he'd gotten in his crimes as he rose up the ladder himself; like I said, I don't approve of cold-blooded murder. But he was still my brother in the end."

"So you did marry the woman in the end?" Disher seemed entranced by that aspect of the story for whatever reason.

"Yeah, I did, and we were good and happy until she got killed in a car crash nine years ago," the chemist muttered, "Not much reason to keep going since then, so I've lived up here since, alone and happy. Well, mostly alone," he turned towards Sharona, "I had the dishonor of meeting your husband after his little tumble into the bay."

The nurse fell off the sofa in shock. "He was here!?" she gasped.

"For about a year and a half," Nunn blew out the fire burning under some of his boiling chemicals, "He came staggering up here all ragged looking, like someone Hell had just spat back out. He said he needed a place to stay until further notice and said he knew Frank. I figured what the heck, might as well do some good for a while in this life, so I let him share my space as long as he didn't interfere with what I was doing for a living. And he obliged; he spent much of his time here writing out his dumb manifesto."

"What manifesto?" Disher asked.

"He was going to send it to every TV and radio station he could get a hold of," Nunn dug a piece of paper out of his drawer, "Fortunately for your sake, he never could finish the darn thing. He was so bent on discrediting all of you that he never could come up with a definitive text before I asked him to leave. See for yourself, Monk."

Adrian took the paper off him and proceeded to read Trevor's rantings:

_To all whom it may concern:_

_In recent times, a television show has been created that details the life and times of Adrian Monk. This program claims to be accurate and truthful. As a concerned citizen, it is my duty to let the public know that nothing about it is true at all; in fact, the truth is the exact opposite of what is shown on the air, and none of the so-called heroes are in fact heroes in real life. I know; I happen to know all of them._

_I may as well start with the so-called star of the show, and unmask him. In reality the show's central mystery is no mystery, for I know what really happened: Adrian Monk himself murdered his wife Trudy. She had grown tired of life with him and was going to divorce him, and Monk, obsessed with holding on to her at all costs, decided that if he couldn't have her, no one would. So he called up Frank Nunn, the six-fingered man, and had him set up a car bombing that would, in his own words, "teach Trudy a lesson about crossing me." Then once she was dead, all he had to do was play the grieving husband for the public, an act he's played so well that nobody except me has deduced that he is the real killer._

_The people around him are no better themselves, and in many cases worse_. _Far from being the innocent, caring woman she's shown to be on TV, Sharona Fleming is a cold-blooded monster of the most hideous sort, a lying, manipulative subhuman snake who stabbed her husband Trevor in the back more times than can be counted. It was she, not Trevor, who really slept around with everyone she could find, she who broke up the marriage coldly and heartlessly when he protested her unfaithfulness, she who lied in court to make sure he was discredited and that she got sole custody of their son, she who then buried Trevor under unfair and crippling alimony payments and connived to keep him from his son, and she who was evil enough to even brainwash her own child into creating a show that bashed Trevor every single week without mercy as the ultimate and unforgivable cruel act of hate, proving exactly what a_ (here he called his wife something that Adrian knew no man should ever call a woman) _she really is._

_Nor is anyone else off the hook for immoral actions. Seemingly sweet, innocent Natalie Teeger in fact hated her husband Mitch with a passion, so much so she too cheated on him every chance she got, and was going to file for divorce before he died under what really are suspicious circumstances. Captain Leland Stottlemeyer is corrupt, taking money from everyone and throwing innocent people in jail in order to meet a pre-set monthly arrest quota, and has eagerly indoctrinated Lieutenant Randall Disher in these dark dealings to point where he is just as bad. And Charles Kroger, seemingly above all reproach, is in fact a Chinese spy, funneling top secret information to them for a hefty payout._

_I ask you the people reading this to demand their phony show be taken off the air at once, and every one of these so-called heroes arrested for their hideous crimes and sentenced to the maximum, including death. They have wronged so many people as to boggle the mind, and it is time for them to pay for it all as severely as they dish it out._

_The Public Avenger_

"Yikes," the detective mumbled, slowly handing it off to the lieutenant to pass around, "He was that steamed with us, was he?"

"Some nights, I couldn't get to sleep because he'd be pacing around raving how evil his wife was and needed to be smote for what he thought were her crimes against him," Nunn looked at a numb Sharona apologetically, "Eventually I had enough and ordered him to leave; he said that was fine, because the time had come to 'enact justice once and for all' anyway. But you should know, though, he did seem to have some times when he seemed like a normal person. He had left this behind when I threw him out, perhaps because it would have been a stumbling block for him to be able to carry out what he was planning."

He handed the nurse a wallet sized photo. Adrian glanced over her shoulder to see a long-ago picture of the Flemings (it was dated June of 1994) at what looked like an amusement park. A much happier Trevor was glancing down at an infant Benjy in his lap with a smile. "He'd just start crying when he'd look at this during those quiet times," Nunn said softly, "And I'd hear him say, 'I wish it could have been different, Son, I wish I could have been the father you deserve. I wish it's not too late now.'"

"Well, it wasn't too late in the end--almost, but thankfully not quite," tears were forming in Sharona's eyes again, "I think I'll need some air."

Clutching the picture close to her heart, she walked past Adrian outside. "Um, Mr. Nunn, we know Trevor was peripherally involved in the plot against my wife," he told the six-fingered man's brother, "Did he say anything at all about...?"

"He didn't say anything about who your ultimate killer was, no," Nunn shook his head, "Frank was as high up the pole as he knew. But he did say how he'd been drawn into it, yeah."

He took a sip of coffee from the table and slumped down in an armchair, stroking his dog's fur. "Apparently," he began again, "Your friend Mr. Fleming had borrowed some money off Frank when he was running a big league extortion game in New Jersey in the mid to late 90s, probably to pay off some other people he owed money to, my guess is. Frank gave him a month to pay back or else, but even with that dire threat he still didn't come up with the money in time. So one night Frank cornered Fleming in the bathroom at a sports bar with a machine gun and was going to do him in. Fleming pleaded desperately that he'd do anything for Frank if he didn't kill him, so eventually Frank acquiesced. Apparently he'd just gotten hired to kill your wife, because his deal with Fleming in the end was that if he helped participate in the murder, he'd let him off the hook."

"He told Monk he was the backup bomber a couple of years ago when Monk confronted him on it," Stottlemeyer explained.

"Yeah, that's what he said to me," Nunn nodded, "Apparently, and this is just my guess, Frank wanted to make absolutely sure Monk's wife died, and he wasn't entirely convinced this Warwick Tennyson guy's first bomb, the one that actually went off, would work. So he mailed Tennyson requesting another bomb be built and sent Fleming to pick that up. Of course, he had no idea Fleming knew Tennyson from school back in the day, but that worked out well for Fleming, since that meant Tennyson wasn't going to blow the whistle on him, and he was desperate his kid never find out that he was doing this. But anyway, his orders from Frank were to take the backup bomb and follow Trudy Monk around until the bomb Frank planted himself went off. If it hadn't, he was to blow her up with his own bomb the next chance he got. Of course, the first bomb did go off as planned, so that rendered his participation ultimately irrelevant. But of course, Fleming wasn't going to just walk around all day with a bomb, so he decided to get rid of it before he went back east. So once he knew that Mrs. Monk was in fact dead, he went into an alley, turned it on, tossed it into a dumpster and ran like hell."

"The second bomb in the city that day," Adrian nodded as Stottlemeyer and Disher's cells rang simultaneously. Both cops walked outside to take the calls.

"But Frank did keep his word and didn't bother him again from then on," Nunn finished, "And for that he was grateful. And I think that's all I have to say, so I'll bid you all a good day, because I have more work to get back to before..."

"Before we leave," Jack folded his arms across his chest, "I believe you can say something to my son on behalf of your brother, who was too much of a coward to say it himself."

"I guess I can. I'm sorry, Monk, that Frank killed your wife and ruined your life for all intents and purposes," Nunn told the detective, genuine regret on his face, "If I could go back in time and stop him, I would by all means."

"Apology accepted, I suppose," Adrian nodded slowly, "Not least of all because we're going through the same thing, you having lost your wife as well."

"You know, you don't have to shut out the world because you've had bad experiences," Natalie told the chemist, "If you give up wanting to enjoy the world, you're already dead for all intents and purposes."

"That's the way you can look at it, but I'm happy the way I am now," Nunn shook his head.

"I always tell her the rest of the world isn't as criminally positive as she is," Adrian told his wife's killer's brother, prompting his assistant to glare at him.

"Well, thank you for your time anyway, Gene," Wallace thanked him, "We'll leave you to yourself again now."

"And please, try and get this cabin cleaned anyway," Adrian asked in parting as they walked back outside. Sharona was seated on a stump, staring at the ground. "I may not have liked what he became, but I always wished we could have made it work as a family, I really have," she mumbled softly as everyone approached, staring numbly at the photo, "I wish he'd been strong enough to fight the darkness so we could have made it work."

She pointed at the photo. "I guess we'll always have this, even if it doesn't counterbalance what he did after that...or maybe it does," she continued, "I just don't know. I just wish life was black and white just for once so I wouldn't be stuck trying to decide which Trevor to remember more."

"Which one do you really want to remember more?" Natalie asked her.

"That's no contest; the one that loved his son and at least tried to get into the light for his sake," the nurse told her successor, whose soft nod hinted that she'd known that would be the answer, "I'm just glad to know he never did stop caring for Benjy after he had only hate left for me."

"Well, the thing with fathers and sons to keep in mind, Mrs. Fleming, is that the bond between them is pretty damn hard to break for good no matter what happens between them," Jack glared her down, "And contrary to what you might think, I thought of Adrian more than a few times when I needed something to get me through a tough situation like..."

"Uh, Dad, I don't think you're helping the situation," Adrian raised an eyebrow at him.

"I might, though," Stottlemeyer came bustling from around the side of the cabin. "You don't have to worry anymore," he told Sharona with a smile, "That was the Summit P.D.; Trevor is definitely dead for good; the body in the coffin matches his DNA 100%, and they even checked twice to make sure."

The nurse sighed in deep relief. "It's over for good now," she said out loud, "I can tell Benjy his father died in the light after all."

"Well that's good and well, but unfortunately we didn't get to learn anything useful about who's trying to kill Monk in the end here," the captain pointed out.

"But we might, Captain," it was Disher's turn to come bustling into sight, "That was the hospital in Redding. Linda Fusco just woke up and she's begging to tell us something really important."

"She's lying," Stottlemeyer sighed in disgust, "And I don't want to meet her face to face, period; I'll lose Jared for good if I try that now."

"But we may not get another chance to learn anything if she is telling the truth this time," Adrian countered, "I'm going to check it out; anyone else who wants to come can come. Sheriff," he opened the passenger door to Wallace's cruiser, "I'm ready when you are."


	10. Linda Fusco's Confession

"I, I changed my mind, I'd rather not go in there," the detective said nervously as they pulled up in front of the hospital in Redding.

"After all the bravado you made about wanting to know for sure what she knew!?" Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes in disgust.

"I wasn't thinking straight there, Captain; I forgot what tends to be in hospitals," Adrian told him.

"Well, since we're here, might as well go in," the sheriff climbed out of the cruiser, "Are you coming or not, Monk?"

Adrian figured he didn't have much of a choice; he did, after all, want to hear whatever Linda had to say firsthand. He followed everyone inside, hoping the hospital was as sterilized as it could be. His first impression, though, was a positive one; the floor had recently been washed, and the walls seemed clean. "Sheriff Wallace from Breckman Lake," the sheriff told the receptionist at the front desk, "I'm here with Adrian Monk; we want a word with Linda Fusco."

The receptionist typed into her computer. "Room 315," she told them, "But she's under police protection; they're sending her back to prison once she's healed enough, so she's under a no-visitors policy."

"I think we count as an exception," Adrian spoke up, pulling letters off the felt directory board next to the front desk and sticking them back on perfectly lined up with each other, "We know Ms. Fusco personally."

"OK, I'll send up the word you're coming," the receptionist reached for the phone. The group walked towards the elevators. Adrian, though, had no intention of riding in one and instead jogged up the stairs to the third floor, thus beating everyone to the top by a split second. It was easy to tell which room Linda was in anyway; a pair of Redding policemen stood guard outside the door. "We're here to see Linda Fusco," Stottlemeyer told the guards, who opened the door. The captain's expression quickly dropped into a frown as he walked inside to view the woman he once loved, lying broken in bed with her arms in casts and her head bandaged. "Leland," she whispered upon seeing him, "You came."

"Yeah, and it better be worth the trip," he growled, "I think you know pretty much everybody else here; let me introduce Sheriff Gavin Wallace, we're working on him with what's going on at the festival; I don't think you've met Sharona Fleming yet..."

"Pleasure," the nurse told Linda dryly, not shaking her hand, "Or not. You're lucky I wasn't around when you stabbed the captain in the back, or I'd probably have given you a piece of my mind, and then some."

"And I'm Jack Monk, Sr.; don't get up," the former trucker told the realtor, who certainly couldn't with her arm suspended over her head in a sling, "So, what is it we need to know about who's trying to kill my boy here?"

Linda glanced nervously out the door. "Were you alone when you came here?" she asked.

"Far as we know," Disher looked puzzled, "Is it that big?"

"It's bigger than you think," she said, her eyes flashing wildly, "This was planned out well in advance, designed to kill you with..."

"Will you please just get to the point and tell us what's going on here!?" Stottlemeyer snapped impatiently.

"And you're sure you're alone?"

"Damn it woman, tell us something or we're leaving!!" Stottlemeyer bellowed at her, starting to walk towards the door.

"All right, all right!" Linda cried at him, "Last week at dinner in prison, I overheard Dale Beiderbeck talking on the phone with someone, saying he wanted to see you dead, Monk."

Everyone froze up at the mention of the fat man's name. "I heard him very clearly," she told him, her eyes darting nervously in every direction, as if she expected Beiderbeck to come charging in at any second, "He was on the phone to someone called 'Agent X', and he said, and I quote, 'Just make sure I have Adrian Monk's head mounted on my wall before they come for me, and you'll be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams.'"

"Who was he talking to?" Adrian pressed her.

"I don't know; I swear I don't know!" she cried noticing Stottlemeyer's disbelieving glare, "He never mentioned the person's name, he only said, 'Monk certainly won't suspect you work for me. Just make sure you don't make him suspicious at that cabin all next week, because this is my last chance to even the score with him for good, and I want it to count."

Adrian noticed the surprisingly uniform reaction of his five companions to this news; their eyes all went wide, and they started shuffling around nervously. Was it simple shock, he wondered to himself, or was one of them in fact the killer Dale had been talking with? Would Dale actually sink so low to try and get one of them on his side? Moreover, what could the fat man possibly have used to leverage them if so? Nonetheless, this confirmed for good his suspicions that it was an inside job that had been at work throughout the week. "And you're certain it was Dale Beiderbeck who was planning this, Linda?" he asked her for complete confirmation that the second most hated person in his life (after whoever had killed Trudy) was in fact the mastermind of the murders.

"It's kind of hard to mistake someone who's a six hundred pound gorilla, Monk," Linda told him, making the detective crack up at Dale being ridiculed, "And when I heard it, I felt I owed it to make it up to all of you after I'd tricked you all, so I started thinking of how to get out of jail. But in the end, I lucked out; there was a hidden trapdoor in the corner of my cell I hadn't noticed before, so I crept out the tunnel under it into the parking lot and ran like hell for the woods. I hitchhiked rides up here to Breckman Lake, hoping I was in time to save all of you, and I guess I made it in the end."

"A trapdoor in the cell floor?" Adrian mused. "You were in Jack Jr.'s cell, I'll bet," he exchanged a knowing glance with Natalie, "He said he'd been given a bigger, more spacious cell as a reward for helping us out."

"Yes, I was moved in there two months ago," Linda told him, frowning, "Who's Jack Jr.?"

"You're better off not knowing," Jack Sr. shook his head, "Did you hear anything else that might help us figure out who this Whale freak's using against us?"

"In fact, I heard Beiderbeck mention two other names during the phone call," Linda nodded, "The first was someone named Avery McNall; he was supposed to be the main conduit of Beiderbeck's inside man."

"Avery McNall?" Stottlemeyer's brow furled, "I never heard of anyone with that name."

"I can run a check through my computer and see if anything comes up once we get back to Breckman Lake," Wallace offered him. "And the second name?" he questioned their informant.

"A Leo Kashner," the former realtor said, "He was basically just hired muscle, to add more manpower to the operation."

"So John was right," Natalie said out loud, "Leo Kashner did help kill the Kights. Anything else?" she asked Linda.

"That's all I heard," she shook her head, "And I am sorry," she turned a somber gaze at all of them, "I had time to think in jail, and I realized my whole life was a mistake. I spent it pursuing power and wealth, so much that I didn't realize what more important things I had," she looked mournfully at the captain, "I deserved prison in the end, really, and it's been for the better, since it's opened my mind to what's really important. So I hope telling you what I know here can in some way help you to forgive me."

"Sorry, but you're far too late," Stottlemeyer growled, "Probably Jared was out of line to do this to you," he gestured at her bandages, "but you had it coming either way."

He walked out of the room, a harsh look fixed on his face. "If what you're saying is true, the rest of us do forgive you," Natalie assured the former realtor.

"Thank you," she looked relieved, although disappointed the captain didn't, "If you could do something for me...I don't want to go back to prison," fear exploded on her face, "Dale Beiderbeck knows I heard him; he'll be waiting for me if I'm there; in fact, he could send his agents here now to finish me off..."

"Well, since you are telling us about the plot, we could probably arrange for special protection, couldn't we?" Disher looked at Wallace.

"I think we could set something up with the state given the circumstances," the sheriff nodded. "Well, we thank you for your information," he told a relieved Linda, "Take care and recover quickly, Ms. Fusco."

"Yep, get well soon," Jack patted her on the head, perhaps on purpose, perhaps not, making Linda grimace in pain. Adrian tried to absorb everything he'd heard as he trudged back down the stairs to the first floor. Could the killer have just been tipped off to the plot's exposure? If so, would they now move quickly to eliminate him? He doubted he was going to get much sleep for the rest of the week either.

If any of his innermost confidants were in fact the killer, they were adept at covering their fear of exposure with general shock, as all of them had this expression when they stepped off the elevator. "Can't believe it," Stottlemeyer was in particular shock, "Someone we trust sold us out."

"Funny enough that she ended up in Jack Jr.'s cell," Jack Sr. was frowning, "I don't know exactly what it means, if anything, but it looks just a little convenient they'd be connected like that. Oh well, I'd say our path is pretty easy from here; just have the prison staff interrogate this Whale freak and force him to confess everything,"

"You don't know Dale Beiderbeck--among other things," Sharona frowned him down more than a little suspiciously; Adrian knew she still had her feelings his father might be the killer (and given that he had in fact been absent when Shalhoub had been shot, it wasn't without cause). "You can't just interrogate Dale the Whale," the nurse continued explaining to the former trucker as they walked out of the hospital, "He'd never willingly give up anything that would come back around to hurt him. We had to get his physician's testimony to convict him the first time I met him; we're probably going to have to catch one of his agents to get lucky here too."

"At least we do know more now, like why the hit was ordered," Disher seemed more upbeat--perhaps a little too much so, Adrian wondered, "I heard they're finally going to execute him within a week or so; revenge would be right up his alley."

"We can still have him interrogated even if he won't crack," Wallace reached inside his cruiser for the radio, "What's the number for the prison he's in, anyone know?"

"555-0666," Stottlemeyer told him. The captain sighed and leaned against the cruiser. "Of course, we can't be sure she wasn't actually in on it in the first place," he mumbled, "She might be talking now only to save her own skin."

"I think she's on the level, Captain," Adrian bent down with his clippers to even out the grass blades around the cruiser, "I could just tell it in her eyes she was telling the truth."

"I agree," Natalie nodded. "You know," she told Stottlemeyer with raised eyebrows, "Maybe you should forgive her in the end."

"Natalie, you yourself cracked that case with Monk, so you know full well she played me like a banjo from start to finish," Stottlemeyer growled, "And you saw how she's divided my family. I can't forgive that any more than you could if it turned out Mitch had been sleeping with someone else--just hypothetically," he added quickly as an uncomfortable look came on her face--too uncomfortable, perhaps, Adrian wondered, or was he so much on edge from knowing what they now knew that he saw villainy everywhere? "Anyway," the captain climbed into the cruiser, "I just want to get back to Breckman Lake and leave all these bad memories behind. And remember, you all promised not a word to Jared or Max that I met her."

* * *

"So tell me what the hell is the matter with you!?" Beiderbeck was barking into a cell phone inside his cell, "I can't believe you couldn't have finished Monk off right there in the convention center!"

"Hey, how could I tell which one was him and which one was Tony Shalhoub from up there!?" the person on the other end of the phone protested.

"You should have shot both of them just to make sure, you numbskull!!" the fat man upbraided his agent.

"He started running for the door right after Shalhoub went down; there were women and children everywhere around him; I didn't want to...!"

"And you really think I care if women and children get killed along the way to accomplishing your prime directive!?" Beiderbeck hissed, "May I remind you that I did place the five hundred thousand dollar bounties on both Julie Teeger and Benjamin Fleming's heads as well, that you'll get paid well if you've got the guts to send them into their well-deserved graves!?"

"Could you please cork it, Beiderbeck, I'm trying to concentrate on my game here," Kloster snapped coolly at him from the cell next door.

"Why don't you cork it, Patrick; I'm in the middle of a very important phone call here!" the fat man snapped back, "Not like you need any quiet when you're only playing with yourself, you dolt!"

He took deep, aggravated breaths. "All right, I don't think I need to remind you that time is ticking here," he told his agent in exasperation, "If what you said about Linda Fusco being in Breckman Lake is true, and there's no reason to doubt it after I saw her listening in to my last call with you, Monk will take more precautions to make sure he leaves that festival alive. And if you fail me, not only will you not get the inheritance, but I'll leave evidence behind when they take me to the execution chamber that will easily incriminate you as well."

"Damn you, Beiderbeck, why did I just know you'd try and stab me in the back!" "Agent X" shouted at him, "And why aren't you going to pay up for the Kights; you said anyone in that cabin...!"

"I gave you a very clear list of the people that qualified for the bounties," Beiderbeck said smugly, "The Kights aren't close enough to Monk to qualify, so if you want the money from me, you'd better start taking out people who are on...hold on one minute."

He shoved the cell phone under his rear end and backed his wheelchair away from the cell bars. The warden and prison doctor were wheeling a metal cart down the hall towards the execution chamber. Beiderbeck knew full well what was in the cart; the sodium thiopental, pancuronium, and potassium chloride for the lethal injections were always delivered to the chamber in this manner. The initial procedures for the fat man's execution were underway. He didn't have much time left to see his scheme brought to fruition.

"Hey Warden, I want to talk to the judge right now!" Hudson started shouting from the cell on his left, "I know Adrian Monk trained that dog to frame me and...!"

"Give it a rest, Hudson; you've been playing that tune for two weeks now," the warden told him off, "And frankly we're all getting a little tired of it, so save it for your lawyer when he stops in over the weekend. Just put this stuff in the control room, Doc."

There came a loud shriek from up the hall. "No, no, Camilla, I didn't...please no...NO!!!" Buchanan was in another one of his fits again, apparently now believing his stepmother had returned again to seek vengeance on him for killing her, "No Camilla, it wasn't me, I didn't do it, it was Natalie! Yes, Natalie Teeger did it; she killed you and set me up! I'd never hurt you or Dad, you know that better...no, please, put that away, I can't...Carl, no, not you too! Go away Carl, leave me alone! Put that away, I...HELP, SOMEBODY HELP ME!!!!"

He could be heard making strange, unintelligible sounds as he rattled the bars of his cell like a madman. "Dear God, not again!" the warden rolled his eyes. "Call the rest of the staff back in with the tranquilizers again," he told the prison doctor, "The sooner we get Mr. Buchanan into an asylum where he belongs, the better."

He and the doctor trudged wearily up to Buchanan's cell, where the former socialite could now be heard scratching at the walls and screeching in a manner much like a monkey might make. Beiderbeck checked to make sure both men were preoccupied before pulling the cell phone back out from under himself. "As I was saying," he whispered, turning his wheelchair towards the wall, "I'm almost out of time here, and I would really like Adrian Monk pay for his crimes before I die, so I expect you to deliver, or else."

"And what do you want me to do about that, Beiderbeck!? Like I said, Monk's starting to catch on that something's up."

"Do the same thing anyone else with nothing left to lose does in the same situation you are," Beiderbeck leaned close to the phone, "Escalate."


	11. Escalation

AUTHOR'S NOTE: All actual lyrics are registered trademarks of their respective copyright holders.

* * *

"Over here, Mr. Monk," Cathy waved the detective toward a set of booths inside the pizzeria on Breckman Lake's main street, "You took a little longer than we thought."

"We had to stop for the restroom halfway back from Redding," Adrian admitted, sliding next to Jack Jr. in the booth further back from the front door, "And you know me; the restroom had to be spotless for me to go in there."

"Twenty-five minutes cleaning every inch of the damn men's room," Sharona was in a terrible mood as she plopped down next to the Davenports and Harold in the booth closest to Adrian's, "If I didn't care for him, I would have flushed him down the toilet then and there."

"But since it was for a good cause, it was worth it," her former employer said, "We might even get grateful letter from future patrons. But the main point we need to take away from our excursion to Redding is that we need tighter security around the cabin; really, really tight."

"I've arranged for twenty-four hour police protection at the cabin, Adrian," Dwight leaned around the back of his booth, "And I had the tunnel sealed shut so we won't have any more late night visitors."

"I helped out with security too," Turcotte's face appeared next to the producer's, "I called an old friend of mine from the Company, and he'll be setting up some sophisticated detection devices all over the property later tonight, so when we go back after the concert, we'll be safer than ever. So what did you find out, Monk?"

"Well, you were right; Leo Kashner is involved," Natalie told him, "And the clincher is we know he was hired by Dale the Whale."

Several plates clattered in the other booths. Adrian couldn't quite tell who had dropped theirs from where he was sitting. "We had a talk with Li--a reliable source," he noticed Stottlemeyer's raised eyebrows and noticed both the captain's sons frowning as they listened to the detective's words, as if they knew their father had spoken to the most hated person in their lives, "This source," the detective continued, "positively confirmed Dale the Whale as being behind the whole thing."

"Dale Beiderbeck, huh?" Dwight did not look surprised at all, "I should have figured as much; we've been fending off multiple slander lawsuits from him since the show started, Tim told me; we're trying to settle two more out of court right now, and since he's been greatly compromised in the last few months, they should be easy wins for us."

"We were also told something else," Disher spoke up, "Our source said that someone close to Monk was working with Dale to do the things that've happened so far this week. So if anyone here happens to be involved," he glanced at the group, "Please stand up now."

No one stood up; most of them stared at the lieutenant confusedly. "OK, have it your way," Disher shrugged, "But just be warned, the truth will come out in the end, so you should probably have taken this chance here."

"You think anyone's going to admit to terrorist acts right here in the middle of a crowded restaurant, Randy, and to Monk's face no less?" Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes. "Anyway," he turned back to the producer, "It's not going to be as easy as you'd think; the warden had Dale interrogated while we were checking the cabin; he denied everything, so it's basically our word against his right now, and so we'll have to prove beyond a doubt he's in on it. Plus, there's the matter the witness has a history of lying before...

"It's the devil woman, isn't it?" Jared glared at him, "Don't try to weasel out of this, just tell me that it's her."

"Uh, maybe it is, maybe it isn't," Disher hastily stepped in for his superior, "Can't really give it away due to the seriousness of the investigation. Besides, I really don't see what difference it would make..."

"That's exactly why you're the stupid one," Max leaned around his brother, glaring, "It means Dad did go to see her."

"Max, come on, this is not what it looks like, as I've been trying to tell you and your brother all day!" Stottlemeyer pleaded desperately to his sons, "I hate her, I hate everything about her for what she did to me, and I only went because she claimed she knew what was going on up here! Now maybe she's right, maybe she's wrong, I don't know yet, but I want the two of you to know for sure, from my own mouth, that I had no idea she was going to be here at all, and once this whole matter is settled, I want nothing further to do with her because I can't forgive her for manipulating me like she did, OK!?"

Without saying a word, Jared rose up with a harsh glare and stormed towards the pizzeria's door, slamming it hard behind him. Max jumped up as well, shook his head disappointedly at his father, and followed his brother out. "Perhaps I should have a word with them," Archbishop Fitzwater stood up himself, "If there is one thing that disappoints me about human fallibility in this world, it's how we always tend to believe only that which we wish to believe."

"I'm coming too," Marsha slid past her husband to follow the priest, "Just in case they see you as an authority figure not to be trusted."

The two of them left as well. Adrian wished he had something he could say to his superior, who sank wearily into the booth in front of the detective's with his head hung low. "So, uh, did the day go well after we left, given everything that happened?" he asked Ambrose, who had the window seat on his side of the booth."

"Everything went according to plan...I mean, nothing really of note happened since then," Ambrose sputtered somewhat suspiciously, "I stayed in the convention center till we all came over here; no point in going outside, and simple odds hinted the shooter wouldn't strike twice. We also got the news on Shalhoub over the PA; he'll be up and about within a day or so, since it looks like the bullet didn't go in that deep at all. The shooter must have been at a bad angle anyway."

"Although from the way it was described to me, it sounded like the wound was a whole lot worse than it was," Jack Jr. commented, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say some higher force was giving us all superhuman healing abilities."

"Really? Tell that to Mrs. Maven and Mr. Albright," his father snorted, taking the end seat in the booth, "Did you take my advice and stay out of trouble after I left?"

"Of course, Dad; a promise is a promise," his youngest son beamed a too-big grin.

"Ambrose, what did he do!?" Jack Sr. wearily asked his oldest son.

"Uh, nothing really, except he wrote down everyone's names on some spare paper and tried to sell them as our autographs to everyone in the convention center for fifty dollars apiece," the instruction manual writer admitted. Jack Sr. growled in frustration. "Every time, everywhere, you just can't stop ripping people off, can't you!?" he berated Jack Jr.

"Hey, I'm not hurting anyone; it's not like I'm holding them at gunpoint to take them!" the con artist protested, "They bought them of their own..."

"Funny thing that you should mention guns just now," his father interrupted, "Because when we met with Ms. Fusco at the hospital, she mentioned that she escaped by getting out a secret tunnel in her new cell, which, very conveniently, sounds like the one you got out of before you met Adrian. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you!?"

"Oh, I see; because I have a prison record, it obviously has to be me who's Dale the Whale's inside man," Jack Jr. rolled his eyes in disgust, "You say I'm bad; here you go again, jumping to conclusions about..."

"Jack, do you know anything, yes or no!?" the former truck driver demanded, glaring in his son's face.

"Hand to God..." Jack Jr. thrust his hand in the air.

"And don't bother giving me that hand to God crap either, because I stopped believing anything you said when you invoked that twenty-five years ago," Jack Sr. growled, "So I want the truth, because we are talking about people's lives here; are you involved in this plot in any way, shape or form, yes or no!?"

"All right then, yes, yes I am, I killed everyone; are you happy now!!??" Jack Jr. bellowed back.

"You did!?" Ambrose looked stricken.

"I was being sarcastic, Ambrose; of course not," his half brother upbraided him, "I don't know anything about what's going on here at all!" he shouted back at his father, "I know it's impossible for you to believe me, but it's the truth whether you like it or not! If you're going to accuse someone, accuse Mr. Krenshaw; he threatened Adrian right before Shalhoub got shot, didn't he Adrian?"

"It wasn't me either," Harold glanced up over the top of the booth behind them, enraged, "And I see what you're up to, Adrian," he glared at his nemesis, "I'm the easy fall guy for all this, aren't I?"

"Well Harold, you certainly have motive, and you also certainly weren't there when the shots rang out," Adrian couldn't suppress a smirk.

"And I would think, after five years of knowing me, Adrian, that you would know that I am perfectly incapable of murder," Harold glared at him, "You thought it was me when Chuck retired for a while a few years ago too, and you found out very quickly it couldn't possibly have been me. And it can't possibly had been me now either."

"If that's true, where were you when the Kights were killed?" Ambrose interrogated him, "I certainly don't remember seeing you after we went inside the fairgrounds."

"Cleaning up all the trash in nice even rows up and down the rows of booths," Harold countered, "And if you think you'd ever catch me dead in a muddy tunnel, you're dead wrong."

"But it's becoming clearer that the killer has OCD, Harold, and I certainly wouldn't want to kill myself," Adrian counter-countered.

"Oh I see; this is a lynching more than a real investigation," Harold threw up his hands in disgust, "You're so eager to nail me that you...I'm not eating this!" he berated the waitress that had arrived with the pizzas for his table, "I specifically requested four perfectly formed mushrooms per slice on this pie! I want it done properly or you'll get no check!"

"Harold, don't start!" it was Sharona's turn to glare at him, "I've had a very long and trying day, even more than you've had, and I really just want to eat, so if you try and hold up dinner, I'm going..."

"Let me guess, you're going to kill me? Is that it?" Harold interrupted. "You see, Adrian, there are other options," he turned back to the detective, a smug look on his face, "Like your former assistant here. Always blowing her stack and wishing ill on everyone else. I myself heard her say the other night she wished Marci Maven was dead, do you remember that? A few hours later, Marci is in fact dead. Coincidence? Or just another step on an insidious plot? She also wasn't in the convention center when the shot was fired, was she, Adrian?"

Enraged, Sharona pulled her fist back to deck him. "Mom, Mom, no, don't!" her son jumped between the two of them. "It's not her!" he told Harold off, "I was with her when Mr. Shalhoub was shot, so just back off her!"

"Just because she didn't pull the trigger didn't mean her hand wasn't on the gun in another sense," Harold sneered at him. "Of course, maybe you're right and it's not her," he turned back to Adrian, "Can't forget about the captain's wife, who clearly hates you with a passion. You may have been wrong about her last time, but maybe she's counting on you hesitating now to get the drop on you. Then again," he walked back a few steps and glanced at Turcotte, "Interesting how that Kashner guy," he bent down and straightened out Turcotte's utensils, "Happened to be so quickly IDed by you. And given your background you have access to lots of weapons at a moment's notice. Heck," he stared down at Dwight, "I wouldn't put it over you to have done it either, especially since you'd be the last person anyone would suspect. An easy cover of making sure this whole paean to Adrian goes smoothly; you have security clearances everywhere, and..."

"Mr. Krenshaw, I can assure you I am not working for Dale Beiderbeck," Dwight rose up to face him down, "The man made insulting remarks about my wife in his last lawsuit against the show; I would never confide in anyone who does that. Now please, I'm asking you nicely just once, have a seat, and please observe silence for the rest of dinner."

"Only if my pizza turned out properly," Harold grabbed the tray off the waitress as she returned with a corrected pie and examined it thoroughly. "Yes, thank you, this is right; that wasn't so hard, was it?" he snorted at her, putting the tray on the table, "But you get no tip for screwing it up in first place."

"Whatever, now will you please do what Mr. Ellison told you to and sit down and let us eat!? "Bobby berated him.

"I'm not waiting for that," Peggy pushed past Harold, "I'm not sitting next to this lunatic; I'm getting my own table with my own pie. Are you coming!?"

There seemed to be an incredibly anxious look on her face as she waved for her husband to come with her, Adrian thought, as if Harold's soliloquy had touched a nerve with her somewhere. He glanced up as a pepperoni pie was set in front of him. "Um," he held up his hand at the waitress, "You're, you're probably not going to want to hear this after Harold went off like that, but I can't eat this one either," he told her, "The pizza isn't cut into equal slices; I'd really, really like it that way."

The waitress rolled her eyes in disgust. "Be glad when this week's over..." she started muttering under her breath as she walked away.

"I was really looking forward to that pizza," came Tommy's disgruntled voice from the back of the booth.

"Well, uh, Tommy, you, you deserve nothing but the best, and that pizza, it wasn't really right for you," Adrian told them boy, "You'll thank me later."

"Probably not," he turned towards the window, disgusted.

"You know, Tommy, adults sometimes have problems too," Christie leaned towards his ward, "Mr. Monk here has a problem about the world being in order..."

"Yeah, I know he's got a problem," Tommy rounded on him, "And it so happens you do too, for thinking I want any of your advice. So just be quiet and let me eat when dinner finally gets here...here, thank you."

The waitress had returned with a corrected pizza. Adrian would have liked to have pointed out that there were uneven amounts of pepperoni on each slice, but seeing how disappointed Tommy had been, he didn't want to alienate him any further. "It, it does look good," he remarked, taking the cutter and helping himself to a slice that had exactly four pieces of pepperoni, and then tapping his napkin down on it to remove the excess grease.

"Rated the ninth best pizza in the state by experts," Ambrose was doing the exact same thing.

"And you wouldn't be having it if you didn't have the courage to come out of the house, Ambrose," his father was also de-greasing it the same way, "Aren't you glad you came up here?"

A strange look crossed Ambrose's face. "You know, all these years, I thought death waited on the other side of the door," he admitted, "And now, after three vacations with you and Adrian, I'm starting to realize, it's not really that bad going outside. Sure, it's nothing I want to do regularly, but maybe once in a while like this would be good. And really, I have you to thank, Dad," he smiled at his father, "I think knowing you were coming along on these gave me the strength to go outside. I hope we can do a lot more of these down the road."

Adrian couldn't help noticing the somber expression on Jack Sr.'s face, knowing he didn't have much time left to enjoy with his sons. "So," the detective quickly changed the subject before Ambrose might catch on, "Anyone know what we'll be doing later on tonight?"

* * *

"Miniature golf?" the detective frowned as they approached the course on the fringe of town.

"You did it before, Mr. Monk," Julie reminded him.

"But not really with a crowd," Adrian glanced nervously from side to side. Hundreds of fans were applauding their approach to the golf course as if it were something really special. While he had golfed before, it had been in relative anonymity, where he could fully concentrate on what he was expected to do.

"I talked it over with the staff ahead of time; they're going to clear everyone away from the course for our safety," his father-in-law told him.

"Ah," the detective remarked. That didn't entirely make him feel any better, but it was better than the alternative of having people breathing down his neck while he was playing. He dropped back a bit from the others. "Uh, thank you for agreeing not to walk out on us," he told Stottlemeyer's sons, trailing the crowd with scowls etched on their faces.

"We didn't stay for you," Jared glared at him, "We did it to keep the old geezer and the lady quiet. So just leave us alone Monk, because we've got nothing further to say to you."

"If you feel that way," Adrian shrugged. He glanced over at Marsha, watching the exchange; she shook her head and mouthed, "_We tried_." Shaking his head, the detective looked back at the Davenports, bringing up the very rear (Harold had rather suspiciously refused to come along, saying he had something important he needed to take care of. As such, Adrian had pulled aside one of the officers and guard duty and asked him to follow Harold and give him updates without letting Harold know about it. If the killer could be anyone, he hoped it would be Harold, the one among them all he knew he wouldn't mourn seeing going to jail) and stopped in place. "Aren't, uh, you coming in," he asked them.

"We're just not interested in golf," Bobby shook his own head, "Peggy, Jonathan and I are going for a coffee."

"Actually, Dad, I'm going in as well," Jonathan spoke up, his arm around Gail, "Never tried it before, figured I might have a go of it."

"You sure about that?" his mother raised her eyebrows; Adrian couldn't help noticing the more than a little disparaging look she was giving the actress.

"Yes, we talked it over, and we decided we want to do it," Gail countered, flashing more than a slight smile at the toothpaste heir. His parents exchanged worried and frankly disapproving glances. "All right, if that's what you want," Bobby sighed, "You know where we are, then."

He and his wife trudged off through the line of police. "Don't mind them," Jonathan reassured his date, "They get uptight with everyone I've met over the years; you can't really expect anything different with you."

"Well, it's better than my first date back in junior high," she told him, "His father chased me out of the house with a weed whacker, demented old..."

"Are you coming in?" Dwight called from the entrance to the golf course. Adrian rushed with the two of them to catch up. "Which ball do you want, Adrian?" his father-in-law pointed to a set of multi-colored ones on the tray of the front stand.

"Uh," Adrian scanned them and settled on a green one. He promptly bustled to the ball washer and dunked int in repeatedly. Then he picked up a club from the stand and washed it as well. "That wasn't meant to be put in there, Mr. Monk," Natalie pointed out to him.

"But it should have been," he continued dunking the club, "It should be standard to wash clubs like they wash balls at these places; common disease prevention techniques that the whole country should put into effect, really. I can wash your balls and clubs too."

No one stepped forward to give him the chance. Shrugging, the detective joined them by the first hole, which curved around a wishing well. "We've decided men against women, lowest cumulative score wins," his father-in-law explained, "My dear, you get the first shot."

Smiling at him, Marsha set the ball on the tee and hit a strong put that just made it onto the cusp of the green. "Very nice, very nice," her husband embraced her, "Doctor, your turn next."

Dr,. Bell stepped up to the tee and placed it on the left side. "You, you may want to center that," Adrian advised his psychiatrist.

"I think I can get a better shot from here, Adrian," Dr. Bell told him.

"But it's not centered," the detective continued pressing. Ignoring him, Dr. Bell tapped out a putt that almost but not quite went as far as Marsha's. "Not bad," Adrian commended him, "but it probably would have been better if you'd centered it."

"OK, uh," Dwight scanned all the females in the party, "Becky, let's let you go next."

"Hey Monk," a deputy came running across the course towards him with a manila envelope in hand as Becky took her place at the tee (putting it on the right side of the tee to Adrian's consternation). "Monk, the sheriff told me to tell you he ran a check on the name Avery McNall," he lurched to a stop, breathing heavily, "Here's what he came up with."

"Let me take a look," Adrian took out his tweezers and gently extracted the papers inside the envelope. "Hmm," he mused, scanning them over, "Interesting."

"What about him?" Disher leaned over the detective's shoulder.

"It seems Mr. McNall has a rap sheet for being a child molester," Adrian announced out loud, "And he has OCD. He used to be a forensics expert and part time Little League coach in Los Angeles, but then about ten years ago, the daughter of his boss came forward saying McNall had...had done what child molester normally do...with her," he gulped; the very thought of that made him deathly uncomfortable. "Just as the police were getting solid evidence against him, he disappeared," he continued, "No one's seen or heard from him since them, and they think he might have changed his appearance since that time."

"Looks like they gave us a picture for reference," Stottlemeyer took a head shot out of the folder. Adrian squinted intently at it. Although he didn't immediately recognize McNall, there was something very familiar about him that the detective couldn't quite put his finger on. That wasn't all going through his mind, though. McNall had vanished for the last ten years. Joshua Kight had died ten years ago as well--and had been walking home from a baseball game when he'd been killed. His earlier intuition that the two crimes might somehow be connected now seemed more rational. If Joshua had been a victim of McNall's hideous activities, it would certainly explain why he'd been so withdrawn in the last few months of his life; he would have likely felt terrible that the whole thing had been going on and had wanted to say something, the detective figured, but McNall probably had threatened his life if he did speak out, then had taken Joshua out when it became clear he wouldn't keep quiet, since another victim coming forward would probably had ensured McNall life without parole at the least if caught. Of course, he couldn't prove any of this yet, but given the OCD-related clues in each case, it wouldn't be too much of a stretch to connect them if the right evidence came his way.

"Dwight, did Tim ever say anything about life before his son died?" he asked his father-in-law, "Apart from how much better it was, of course?"

"A little," Dwight frowned, "Why?"

"Oh, just curious; it may or may not be important," the detective said quickly, "Did he say who he may have had any contact with during that time?"

"You think he may have known Avery McNall personally, Adrian?"

"It's certainly possible."

"Well, in that case, I guess I can call his contact list and see what they know. In the meantime," the producer handed the envelope back to the deputy, "Put everyone on alert to look for this guy; bust him as quickly as you can if you see him; given what's happened so far, I don't think he's going to give up without a fight if cornered."

"I'll have the sheriff put out an A.P.B. right away," the deputy nodded as he left. "But why come after Adrian?" Jack Sr. mused, lining up for a putt himself, but only able to get the ball halfway around the well, "I can guess that Fat Boy Dale's been sheltering this piece of human trash from the cops, but why send him after my boy here when he's never met him before...right?"

He glanced at his son, who shook his head firmly. "Well, Dale the Whale has a way of bending people to do his bidding," Natalie remarked, stepping to the tee and hitting a hard bouncer that skipped hard off the side of the well, almost bouncing off the course, "All he has to do is hit just the right notes about what somebody's done wrong in their lives, and they'll do whatever he asks out of fear of exposure. Mr. Monk, you want to go next?"

"I suppose so," Adrian stepped up to the tee. He set the ball down firmly in the center hole, then walked the length of the hole, bending down by the backstop behind the hole itself and flicking at some loose carpeting. "Adrian we don't have all night!" Sharona shouted at him.

"I'm, I'm just about done," he said out loud, hustling back to the tee. He gave the ball a moderate whack, and everyone ooohed in amazement as it came to a stop inches from the hole. "Good job, Mr. Monk, really good," his assistant commended him, giving him a high five.

"It's, it's nothing, really," he dug out a wipe, "Just simple mathematical caluclating and taking into account climate around the hole, that's all."

"OK, stand aside," Disher stepped up to the tee, "It's time I showed all of you the patented Randy Disher Super Lindy Happy Gilmore Cannon Shot."

"Think it's name's short enough?" Sharona snorted.

"Just a minute, Randy," Stottlemeyer took several large steps back from the tee and to the side, out of harm's way. "OK, do whatever you want now."

Disher stepped back from the tee and raised the club over his head. Adrian instinctively ran behind the captain for protection. "Four!" the lieutenant shouted, running towards the ball and whacking it hard. The ball shot through the air, slammed off the well, ricocheted off a spruce next to the hole, zoomed back towards the tee, and smacked Stottlemeyer hard in the face. Howling, the captain clutched it in agony. "Oops," the lieutenant gulped, inching away, "Well, obviously it worked a little better for Happy..."

With a roar, Stottlemeyer slammed his club to the ground and began chasing his adjutant all over the course in a rage. "Well, too bad to Mr. and Mrs. Rich Types for wanting to skip this," Jack Jr. was smiling bemusedly as he watched the lieutenant run for his life, "This beats a coffee any day. Am I next?"

* * *

"Where have all of you been!?" Atherton greeted Adrian's group impatiently at the gate to the fairgrounds, "I've been waiting a half hour for all of you to show up!"

"Well, it just took a little longer than we thought to finish our game," Jonathan told him calmly, "Are my parents here yet?"

"Nope, haven't seen them," Atherton shook his head. Adrian couldn't help wondering if they'd gone off to do something else other than have a coffee. "But come on then," the professor gestured them towards the stage, "Our first band of the night's almost done; they've been covering until you all got here."

"Coldplay!" Wendy exclaimed as they approached the fairground stage. Adrian had absolutely no idea who Coldplay was supposed to be, but he could tell they had to be big; the audience was really into whatever tune they were playing at the moment, something about Roman Calvary choirs and missionaries in foreign fields that was probably right up Archbishop Fitzwater's alley, he supposed. The sound of scuffling made him look to the left as he walked towards the stage, and saw a large group of people fighting, with security trying hard to break them up. The detective heard pieces of their all-too-predictable shouts: "...no one compares to Natalie, you moron!" "You're an idiot, she's only half the woman Sharona is!" "Natalie's made for him; you think he could love someone like Sharona!?" The detective sighed, figuring he should probably say something once on stage.

Before long, he was backstage again, gulping at the large crowd rocking away to Coldplay as the band finished the song. Atherton trotted onto the stage. "Coldplay, folks; aren't they just great?" he asked them to loud cheers, "And now, welcome back to Monkstock for another address to you the fans, the one and only Adrian Monk!!"

Adrian grimaced as the roar of the crowd reached jet engine levels again. He slowly inched towards the microphone. "Hel-Hello," he waved at the crowd, prompting another guttural cheer. "I'd, uh," he stared at the sky to avoid the crowds, "I'd like to reiterate something I said on a smaller scale earlier to some of you for all your benefit; I don't want any Natalie-Sharona wars here. I've seen several break out so far today, including one particularly nasty incident I think most of us would like to forget," he glanced back at Sharona in the wings; she flashed him a knowing thumbs-up. "I want all of you to respect the other side, since, I'll admit it, they've made equal contributions to making my life better," he continued, "You can have your favorites, but at least don't fight a war with people who disagree. Neither of them should have to go through what one of them did earlier, OK?"

There was widespread applause. Adrian wasn't quite sure whether he'd gotten his point across or not, or if they'd simply applaud anything that came form his mouth. "Adrian Monk, with some good advice, folks," Atherton announced, "All right, we've got another act you might like here; they specifically asked to play Monkstock; Smash Mouth, ladies and gentlemen."

Adrian hadn't heard of them either, but managed a polite applause as Smash Mouth made its way onto the stage. "HELLO MONKSTOCK!!" Steve Harwell shouted at the top of his lungs to the crowd, "As you know enough, we're here to celebrate this guy, the man, the myth, the legend, America's favorite defective detective, Adrian Monk! How does it feel to be here, Monk!?"

He thrust his microphone into the detective's face. "Uh..." Adrian thought for a rational answer, "Strange, sort of."

"HE FEELS STRANGE TO BE HERE!!!!" Harwell shrieked, setting off the crowd again. "Well Monk, since we're big fans ourselves, we've got a little something for you," he waved the drummer forward with a box, "As a token of Smash Mouth's appreciation of what you do for the world, we're giving you these official band jackets!" He pulled one out for the detective to take. "Everyone else is back there?" the singer glanced towards the wings, "Everyone in Monk's gang, come on out; we've got enough for everyone."

"Wow!" Troy for once was out of his stupor as he rushed for the box eagerly. Everyone else came at their own, slower pace. "And Monk's big brother made it too; Ambrose Monk, ladies and gentlemen," Harwell shook the instruction manual writer's hand as he approached the box, "So you decided to leave the house for your brother, huh?"

"Well, uh, Mr. Harwell," Ambrose was looking a bit uncomfortable with the crowds and being outside, "I, um, I am starting to get over the agoraphobia a little bit..."

"HE'S STARTING TO GET OVER THE AGORAPHOBIA!!!!" Harwell screamed the crowd into a frenzy again, making Adrian wonder if he'd had a little too much sugar before the show. Forcing a small smile, Ambrose slipped on a jacket of his own. Disher quickly took the microphone off Harwell and dragged Cathy forward. "Everyone, can I have your attention while I'm here?" he asked the crowd, who fell respectfully silent. "I'd like you all to meet Cathy. You don't know her, but I want you to be the first to know that I intend to make her Mrs. Randy Disher," he bent to his knees and extended a small box in his arm, which he opened to reveal a rather lovely ring. "Cathy Annette Trumbull, will you marry me?"

Tears flowed down Cathy's face. "Yes," she managed to croak, yes I will."

The two of them kissed, setting off applause the likes of which Adrian had never heard before. "SHE SAID YES!!!!!" Harwell redundantly yelled at the top of his lungs into the mike, "Give it up for the lovely soon-to-be Mrs. Randy Disher!!!"

The applause was deafening. Adrian hoped to be able to get off the stage soon. "All right, since we're all here, and we're celebrating Monk, and you want some music, we're going to play the old favorite now for him," Harwell continued milking the crowd, "Especially since we know it fits Mr. Monk here well, right Mr. Monk?"

"Um...?"

"Exactly, so get ready to jam Monkstock, because here we go: Somebody once told me the world is going to roll me; I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed," Harwell started singing, "She was looking kind of dumb with her finger and her thumb in the shape of an L on her forehead..."

Everyone started clapping along with the lyrics. "This is a song!?" Adrian had to shout at Troy next to him to be heard, "Who gave these people their musician licenses!? They don't even rhyme right!"

"It's called a top ten hit, Mr. Monk; that's the way it goes; hey now, you're an all-star; get the show on; get paid," Troy energetically sang right in his face. As far as Adrian could see, everyone else in his party was singing along as well now, Natalie and even Ambrose included, much to his surprise.

"Come on, Mr. Monk, it's your song too; take a verse," a clearly pumped up Benjy pushed another microphone into the detective's hand. Adrian gulped and stared nervously at the crowd. Resigned, he tried his best to follow the lyrics as best he could. "Um, I'm, um, yes, I'm an all-star, I, I get paid well, uh, no, I'm no rock star, so, uh, don't expect me to play this for you," he mumbled weakly, expecting his hearing to go for good at any second.

He then jumped as there came a harmonica blast right in his ear. "Have you no decency!?" he screamed at Jack Jr., with a harmonica (likely stolen from the band when they weren't looking, he figured) jammed in his lips. Too caught up in the moment, Jack Jr. continued blowing it. "All that glitters is gold," Disher sided up alongside Harwell to finish the latest verse of the refrain, "Only shooting stars break the mold. Somebody once asked: could I spare some change for gas? I need to get myself away from this place."

Still singing it, he took Cathy's hand and dove together with her into the crowd by the stage. "Yeah, that's right!" Jack Jr. took a running charge and leaped off the stage himself. With a loud cry, Sharona followed at top speed, followed by Natalie with what the detective thought was a discomforted expression as she passed him, as if the strain of what was happening was starting to get to her as well, for which he certainly couldn't blame her if so. Everyone else started abandoning the stage for the crowd as well. Abruptly, Adrian felt a hand close on his. "Wait, wait, don't!" he pleaded to Troy as Dr. Kroger's son started to run towards the edge as well, "This isn't a sane thing to do!"

"Watch and learn, Monk," Troy told him dismissively, excited to be doing what he was about to do. The next thing Adrian knew, he was airborne, landing on top of dozens of presumably unwashed hands held up by dozens of people, who carried him backwards through the crowd, chanting, "MONK, MONK, MONK, MONK!!!!" at the top of their lungs. "Put me down!!!" he had to scream to be heard, digging desperately through his pockets for wipes, "Put me down now!!! This is illegal what you're doing, you damn hippies!!!! This is a disrespect to the show, a...!!!!"

Suddenly, without warning, a massive explosion ripped through the front of the stage, sending half of Smash Mouth flying backwards from the blast. Screaming, the crowd dropped Adrian to the ground in shock--perhaps not a minute too soon, for he saw dozens of small projectiles soaring through the air from the blast--the nails the sheriff had said had been stolen earlier, he realized. His horror increased as he heard three more loud explosions going off around the fairgrounds--and then even more as machine gun fire burst out to his right, sending the crowd scattering in all directions, screaming. He tried to get up, only to have his hand crushed under the feet of bystanders twice, and was knocked completely over again before he finally got to his feet. He crouched low as he weaved his way through the crowd, desperate to find a familiar face and get out of the line of fire.

A hand suddenly closed on his shoulder. "Just me, Monk," it was Turcotte, looking grim, "Stay down, stay in the crowd. It's Leo Kashner; he's up on the top of the fun house; that's the gun he used during the ambush at the bank; I'd remember it anywhere."

Adrian could only see a dark blob atop the funhouse, shooting wildly in every direction apparently hoping he'd get lucky and hit the detective through sheer firepower. "Hate to do this," the former CIA agent opened up his watch to reveal a small pistol, "I did promise Becky I was going to leave all this completely behind for her. But when lives are at stake like this..."

He aimed the pistol at the figure on the fun house and fired. The figure jerked and toppled out of sight. "It was a tranquilizer, Monk," Turcotte explained to the shocked detective, "Not even enough to really knock him out. Come on, we'll get that confession out of him you want."

"Up there?" Adrian glanced uncomfortably at the fun house roof, "Can't we just bring him down here where we can surround him with cops and...?"

But Turcotte was already dragging him towards the fun house and up the fire escape to the roof, where Kashner laying moaning in a heap, reaching for his machine gun. Turcotte rushed towards it and kicked it out of Kashner's reach before he could get to it. "Well, Leo Kashner, you did survive after all?" he greeted his old enemy coolly, "I guess you did jump out before the cliff, didn't you?"

"Go to hell, Turcotte!" Kashner hissed, trying to squirm away.

"You see, I can't do that, Leo," Turcotte planted a foot on Kashner's chest, "You see, Mr. Monk here," he gestured at the detective, staring right at Kashner's face to avoid seeing that he was well off the ground, "has had several run-ins with death before your little stunt just now. He'd like some information from you."

"Who's working with you on this!?" Adrian demanded right in Kashner's face, "I know Dale Beiderbeck hired you; who else that I know did he bring in as well; I know he corrupted someone spending the week with me at the cabin to help you kill me!!!"

Kashner strangely smiled. "The one who stands to lose the most if they were ever exposed as a plotter, of course," he said giddily.

"No games, Leo!!" Turcotte seized him by the collar, "We want a concrete answer, now; who's the turncoat!!??"

"I'd love to say more, but I've got to go now," Kashner said dreamily.

"You've got to tell...!!" too late Adrian saw Kashner press something on his belt. A low whine rose up as the crook started laughing. "JUMP!!!" Turcotte screamed to the detective, panic on his face, and Adrian couldn't blame him, realizing what was coming next himself. Turcotte seized his hand again, and to Adrian's horror dove off the roof with him just as another explosion went off where Kashner had been laying. They landed in the hay wagon from their first night at Breckman Lake, which was very luckily--so luckily that Adrian couldn't help agreeing with Jack Jr.'s earlier prognosis of how some higher force seemed to want to have him avoiding severe and lasting injury in his escapades--parked right behind the fun house. He had no intention of looking back up to the roof at the moment; he had no desire to see the end results of the explosion. Instead, he wracked his brain as hard as he could, trying hard to decipher whom Kashner could possibly have meant by saying the one with the most to lose had sold out to Dale...but lose what, he had to wonder?


	12. Mr Monk Suspects Everybody

"Monk!" Stottlemeyer came running around the corner of the fun house, "Monk, are you OK!?"

"Pretty much," Adrian didn't look up, too busy trying to put the displaced hay back into their respective bales, "Although Leo Kashner's dead, and we really don't know much more than we did before. Is everyone else all right?"

"I think so, but I lost track of everyone after I got cut by those damn nails and dropped to the ground," the captain grumbled, prompting Adrian to at last look up and grimace to see his superior applying some tissues to several bleeding cuts on his face, "Thank God the boys decided to stay backstage; that kept them shielded from the blast; I called Jared; he and Max'll be with Smash Mouth's road manager until this whole mess is over and done with."

"Did you see Becky at all!?" Turcotte looked deathly worried.

"They'd carried her pretty far to the back of the crowd when I last saw her, so she's probably OK, but I understand the parent's intution if you need to make sure," Stottlemeyer nodded, "Over that way, I think."

"Becky!" the former CIA operative called out as he rushed the direction the captain had pointed. Adrian followed the two of them. Although the gunfire had ceased there, was still mass confusion around the fairgrounds, with people milling everywhere in shock, others being treated by the medics. "I heard other blasts too," the detective told his superior, "Where else did you notice it going off?"

"Oh, the worst part is the whatever monster planted these put one right in the convention center," the captain looked pale, "The whole front of the building's collapsed; Randy's over there now trying to get everyone out of the wreckage; he was right next to me in the crowd and saw it collapse and sprinted over to it. Funny thing is," he mused, "I thought jumping off that stage at the height of the song was a dumb thing to do, but by getting us all to follow him he saved all our lives; we'd all have been taken out if we'd been up there when that bomb planted there went off."

"You know," Turcotte remarked, pushing his way though a group of security officials getting statements from several injured park patrons, "It may sound strange to say this, but actually I recognize these bombs' signatures too, I think."

"You do?" Adrian was amazed.

"C4 with nails sprinkled in for maximum impact; it bears the mark of a serial bomber named Robert Montandon that a colleague of mine was after for a while," Turcotte told them, "He bombed several federal buildings and hospitals liked this over an eight year period."

"Actually, I kind of remember that now," Adrian nodded, "If, if you can, call this guy and see where the trail leads now to Montandon; maybe if we knew that..."

"I'd like to, Monk, but unfortunately from what I've heard, my friend got burned a year or so ago; he's stuck in Miami from what I understand with no way of...Becky!"

His daughter was standing in the middle of the crowd before them, looking deathly unnerved by what had happened but not physically harmed as far as Adrian could tell. "Oh thank God!" the former CIA agent embraced her, "If anything had happened to you...you're not hurt, are you!?"

"No, Benjy jumped on top of me and made sure I wasn't hit," she sobbed in relief, "Did you catch the guy who...?"

"Dead," Adrian told her, "He killed himself before we could bring him in, so he won't be a threat anymore. Where is Benjy, anyway?" he looked around, anxiety rising.

"Over here, Mr. Monk," the boy thankfully stepped out of the crowd to the detective's left. Like the captain, he too had cuts from the nails on his cheek and hands, but Adrian was glad to see he had avoided the worst of the disaster. "Oh bless you," Turcotte embraced the boy as well, "I can't thank you enough for making sure Becky wasn't hurt."

"Uh, Mr. Turcotte, I sort of can't breathe here," Benjy tried to say, and indeed his girlfriend's father was crushing him a little too hard into his chest.

"Move, move, move!!" came Sharona's hyper and frantic voice from the crowd behind them. "Benjy, oh God!" she all but shrieked seeing the blood on his face and wrists, "Oh God, what happened! Did you get...!!!"

"It's OK, Mom; I wasn't shot and these really aren't so bad," he nonetheless looked glad to see her and accepted her embrace.

"We're going to get you the best first aid we can find; you there," she was still hyper as she waved for medical units nearby to come over, "Take the best care of him; I'm going over to the convention center to help out there," she informed the medics, "I'll be back when everything's under control; don't let anything else happen to him."

"So you heard then what happened there?" Stottlemeyer asked her as they raced for the convention center, leaving the Turcottes behind.

"I saw the whole side of the building go down," she looked sick at the memory of the event, "How did they get those bombs in here without anyone looking?"

"Your guess would be as good as ours," Adrian stopped to put several overturned utensils back onto the ledge of a hot dog stand and wipe them all down thoroughly, "You didn't happen to see Natalie at all?"

"I lost track of her after the first blast; I hope...here we are," they had reached the site of the explosion, and Adrian now felt sick himself; the entire front half of the convention center where just hours earlier he'd been happily signing autographs was now a pile of rubble. He could make out Disher, accompanied by Christie and Archbishop Fitzwater, helping crews dig through the wreckage looking for survivors. "Let me through," Sharona pushed her way past several officers standing guard, "I'm a registered nurse; I can help anyone who needs it."

"OK, but I don't know if there's going to be anyone left alive in there now," the guard shook his head sadly, "All that debris falling on someone would..."

"Here's another one!" Disher shouted, heaving a concrete pillar aside. Sharona joined the rush of medics over to the victim, an elderly man wearing a shirt with the show's logo on it. Shaking his head, Adrian walked over to the archbishop on the edge of the debris field (he had no intention of walking into the middle of the dirty chaos before him), straining hard to push aside a metal support. "You, uh, think you're up to doing this at your age?" he had to ask.

"If I didn't try, I wouldn't be fulfilling my vow to the Lord to help those in need," Fitzwater grimaced, but managed to push the support aside. "Oh dear," he sighed, seeing what was underneath, "Over here," he called to several spare medics, "We have a child here who didn't make it."

Adrian definitely felt sick to see a child no older than Tommy in the debris before him..._Tommy_...

"Joe!" he shouted to his former partner by what had once been the convention center's primary bathroom, "Where's Tommy!?"

"Handed him off to Natalie over by the carousel; she was going to look after him," Christie called back, heaving several concrete blocks aside. "Over here, we've got a lady here who doesn't look too good!" he shouted to the medics, looking weary that they had so much to do lately.

"And where did Natalie go after that, did you notice!?"

"Mr. Monk!" came Natalie's voice from the left at that very moment. He was relieved to see her unharmed, with Tommy clinging to to her shoulders and holding Julie and Wendy's hands--all also without any clear sign of injury, much to his relief. "Mr. Monk, are you all right?" she barrelled up to him, "What happened here!?"

Adrian related everything he'd seen and learned. "I, I do feel good though that we escaped the worst of it," he confessed, "Actually, apart from the Kights, we've all gotten through this remarkably well. If I didn't know any better," he glanced upwards, "I would think we were in the hands of a some higher force, like some expert writer or something, who didn't want to really see any harm come to us. Strange, huh?"

"Incredibly," Wendy looked completely puzzled. "Too bad the same can't be said for people we don't know personally, Mr. Monk," she looked pale herself, "The bomber, if it's that Montandon guy Mr. Turcotte thinks it is, also blew up the front gate and the roller coaster. I've heard rumors going around that six people didn't survive."

"The front gate and the roller coaster?" Adrian put aside his sickness at the thought of the carnage and mapped out the fairgrounds visually in his mind, "They set the bombs in a perfect diamond pattern. The OCD killer--Avery McNall, probably--at work; I guess he wanted to set an equal number of bombs in a layout that would be perfectly geometric, figuring that at least one would kill me, and if it didn't that Leo Kashner would finish the job."

There came the sounds of a loud argument coming his way. His father-in-law and Atherton were walking towards the wreckage of the convention center, in the midst of a heated argument. "...don't know how he got in, but I can assure you, it won't happen again, Mr. Ellison," Atherton was arguing, "All we need is tighter security, that's all."

"That's all!? Fifteen people are already dead, Professor, and we had security on full alert for the last several of these deaths!" Dwight shook his head firmly, "It's clear whoever helped Kashner with this knows how to get around security, so beefing it up even more isn't going to do much good!"

"It will if we call in the National Guard or some other professional high level security entity, Mr. Ellison."

"Damn it Professor, what will it take for you to see what's going on here, an air strike by these deviants on Breckman Lake!?" Dwight thundered, "The answer's very simple; we stop the festival now and send everyone home right away."

"You can't stop it now, Mr. Ellison," Atherton protested, "Tim sank a huge part of the show's profits and budget into this event; pulling the plug early's going to put the show in serious red ink, maybe even force an early cancellation. Now do you want to face all those fans out there and tell them you destroyed the program they love before its time?"

"I'd much rather face them that way than have to tell their families they were massacred here celebrating the show!" the producer countered, "Dr. Atherton, we've done the best we can; any further deaths that might happen if we choose to continue this will be blood on our hands--yours and mine--for not stopping when we had the chance. Now do you want that responsibility, because I certainly don't."

"Well, if you have to insist," Atherton sighed, "But then we'll have to cancel the tribute to your daughter that Tim said was going to be the clincher for the week."

"Wait," Adrian stepped forward with his hand raised, "We can't leave without paying tribute to Trudy."

"Adrian..." his father-in-law started to protest.

"I know, Dwight, I'm with you on that, but if we move it up to get it in...this is as much Trudy's special week as mine, you know what I mean?" the detective told him, "Once we do that, then we can leave, but I just think Trudy deserves some honors."

Dwight sighed and paced in a circle, deep in troubled thought. "All right, Adrian, we'll see if we can move the tribute film to Trudy up to tomorrow after the train ride," he conceded, "But I'm doing this with the deepest of reservations; I have a very bad feeling we may not be able to stop whoever's behind this if they keep trying to kill you and all of us."

"Trust me Mr. Ellison, you won't regret this," Atherton reassured him, "I'll call some people with the National Guard and make sure that nothing goes wrong on that train tomorrow afternoon, so you can relax about everything."

* * *

Adrian was anything but relaxed as he stared out the window later that night, again trying as hard as he could to block Ambrose's snores out. His brother had straggled into the convention center's wreckage ten minutes after the detective had arrived, looking deeply shell-shocked and frazzled, but mercifully not injured. The rest of his family, when they staggered in not long thereafter, hadn't quite being as lucky; his father had taken some shrapnel in his leg from the bomb, and Jack Jr. had been hit in the shoulder by Kashner. The two of them had been taken to the hospital for treatment, but they had returned to the cabin just after midnight in reasonable enough shape (again making Adrian wonder if some higher force was making sure no real harm came to anyone; almost, he wondered, to the point of implausibility). Troy had also not escaped injury, taking shrapnel himself in the arm, although thankfully quick thinking by Marsha, who'd been right near him at the time of impact, to pull him down and smother him much as Benjy had done with Becky had prevented any further injuries (much to Adrian's relief as well; he couldn't bear to have to face Dr. Kroger's spirit and tell him his son had joined him in the next world on the detective's watch). Much to Disher's own relief, Cathy had also proven to be unhurt when she'd arrived with an also all right Dr. Bell, although she had hesitated a bit before saying where she'd been during the confusion after the explosions, making Adrian a little suspicious.

In the meantime, Turcotte's CIA friend in the area had set up his security system around the cabin by the time they'd gotten back from the fairgrounds. From the rundown the man had given them all, it was indeed pretty sophisticated; motion sensors and heat detectors now ringed the property, as well as eye-level lasers on the trees that would scan for retinal patterns of anyone in the area (everyone had consented to such a scan for the system's memory so they could pass freely about the grounds); anyone unauthorized to be near the cabin that triggered these systems would set off an alarm back at the sheriff's office and the nearest CIA headquarters, which would prompt a quick response from both agencies, plus the state police. The detective knew that wouldn't do much good, though, given it was likely the main killer wouldn't have to go around the security features if it was in fact someone asleep in one of the rooms next to his.

The front door could be heard opening downstairs at that moment. Adrian wasn't alarmed at this, however; Gail and Jonathan had gone on another boat ride under the light of the full moon after everyone had gone to their rooms (they had been found hiding behind the bumper cars, also unharmed), and from the loud happy laughter he could tell the two of them had enjoyed it. "...haven't had this much fun in years," he could hear Gail exclaiming.

"You should come up to our place one of these days," Jonathan told her, "Dad has a speedboat in the garage; I always enjoyed taking it out for a whirl on the Pacific, if you're up to that sort of thing."

"Are you kidding!? They called me the Speed Queen back in high school," the actress boasted, "When there was an open road before me, I put the pedal to the metal, and no one could stop me till I wanted to stop. What's the address?"

"I can give it to you before we leave; let's see if I can find a pencil and paper in here," Adrian could hear drawers being opened.

"Go on and take your time; I'm going to hit the sack for the night," the detective heard Gail yawn, "But before I go, and in case I don't get a chance to before we leave, let me just say..."

Adrian heard what was definitely a kiss on the cheek, making him blanch uncomfortably. Gail's footsteps came upstairs, followed by the sound of the door to the room she was sharing with her sister and Natalie opening and closing. No sooner had it shut than Adrian heard a light clicking on downstairs. "Well, I see the two of you enjoyed yourself out there, young man," it was Peggy, and her tone was sharper than a buzz saw.

"Mother, Father; were you two watching there all night!?" the toothpaste heir demanded (Adrian had to wonder this himself, for the Davenports hadn't shown up at the fairgrounds at all and had rather suspiciously been rediscovered back at the cabin when he and the others had returned from their nightmarish experience. Harold had also been there at the time, which didn't bode well for him either), "I would like a little privacy with...!"

"Privacy!? With what your father and I can sense is going on between the two of you!?" Adrian could hear Peggy demanding, "If you were having intercourse with that floozy on the lake...!"

"Mother, don't start!" Jonathan shouted back at her, "For the record, I have not had sex with Gail at all, and furthermore, I don't really see what the problem with me liking her is!"

"She's an actress!" his mother protested, "They have sex with every two-bit hack in every city they go through! You'd be making a serious mistake if you chose to spend the rest of your life with her, as you seem to be insinuating now!"

"I am an adult now!" he shouted back, "It shouldn't matter to you or anyone who I can fall in love with! There you go again, doing the same thing you did with Mitch when Nat brought him home! Do you not want either of us to have our own lives!?"

"Look, Jonathan, what your mother's trying to say is that we're just worried about you," Bobby said, calmer but still firm, "You've only known this woman a couple of days; she could be hiding things from you like that other woman was; I would just give it some time before you commit to anything."

"And then what will you do when I do commit!? Harrass her until you force me to leave just like the two of you drove Nat away for so long!?" Jonathan roared, "I know what you're thinking; you're so uptight about holding on to your high and mighty Davenport name that you think anyone who isn't upper class is worthless! Well, you don't control me, and you won't control me!"

"Jonathan Robert Davenport, you watch your tongue with us!" Peggy bellowed, making Adrian a little surprised the entire cabin hadn't been awakened yet, "We are still your parents, and demand a certain amount of respect from you and your sister!"

"No, Nat's the one who's right; you don't respect anybody, so I can't respect you until you change your tune!" their son told them off roughly, "And by the way, you're also certainly not above reproach for what's happening here this week."

"Jonathan, think what you're saying!" his father gasped, "Do you think the two of us would be capable of murder!?"

"Well, the two of you did drive off to San Quentin overnight two weeks ago on what you claimed was a business trip. How do I know you weren't meeting with this Dale Beiderbeck guy and planning to kill Monk off!? Monk did say when I met up with him after the bombs went off that whoever it was working with him had a lot to lose if they were exposed, and I can't help thinking how the both of you happen to fit that!"

"How dare you!" his mother roared, "I can't believe my own child would say such terrible things to my face with...!!"

"And I have nothing further to say!" Jonathan snapped at them, "I'm going to bed, and if either of you tries anything to come between me and Gail, I swear I'll walk out like Nat did! And if I find either of you has been working with Dale Beiderbeck, I won't have any regrets turning you in to the police. Good night!"

"Jonathan, wait!" Bobby called desperately. He was answered by the door across the second floor from Adrian slamming loudly, making the detective jump. "I told you not to jump down his throat like that, Peg!" he heard the toothpaste magnate pleading to his wife, "If we lose him...!"

"Then we lose him," Peggy was unrepentant, "We can't afford anything like this to happen now; a Davenport marrying an actress, of all people; think of what those filthy tabloids would write!"

"Peg, what is the price of our name? The loss of respect from both our children!? I don't want that, and deep down, I don't think you do either!" Bobby begged her. After a moment's pause, Adrian heard him sigh, "I need some fresh air; I'm going to take a walk around the property. You coming?"

"Absolutely," his wife said firmly, "The sooner we get out of this ghastly place the better. I don't know what else could possibly go wrong this week."

"Well, if Monk's..." Bobby's last phrase was drowned out by the door opening and closing. Adrian threw open the window and stuck his head out, but he couldn't hear anything clearly anymore. Amazingly, it seemed no one had been awakened by the argument; for only snores could be heard outside his room, and a quick check out his door revealed only the light in Jonathan's room on. The last bit of conversation he'd heard troubled him, though. Were the Davenports about to admit to each other down there what Jonathan had just proposed, that in fact they were Dale's agents? Their son's information certainly bore some weight. And since Natalie had never been that close to them, she certainly wouldn't have been keeping tabs on their every move. But why, if so, he had to wonder? What could Bobby and Peggy's motive be to sell out to Dale if indeed it was them when they had everything someone could ask for?

"Your guess would be as good as mine, Adrian," came Dr. Kroger's voice from behind him. The detective spun abruptly, gasping. "Please, don't, don't startle me like that!" he begged his former psychiatrist.

"Sorry," Dr. Kroger apologized, walking towards him, "It's just that I can read your mind, Adrian. Care to discuss it?"

"Uh," Adrian glanced at Ambrose, still asleep, "In private, out on the patio; I don't want anyone else to hear this."

He slipped on his coat and walked out the door, holding it open for Dr. Kroger, only to jump again when the psychiatrist's spirit walked through it. Shrugging, he closed it softly and walked out onto the patio, checking over the edge to make sure the Davenports weren't listening in below. No one was visible below, however. Relieved, he slid the patio door closed and sat down in an armchair across from Dr. Kroger near the railing. "I, I wouldn't believe it could be the Davenports," he confessed, "If you could read my mind, then you'll know...they value their status; they wouldn't seem the types to risk it all to get at me, especially when I can't think of why they'd hate me enough to do it."

"I see," Dr. Kroger nodded.

"Then again," the detective went on, "They could easily have killed everyone; I don't remember them being around at the time any of the victims were killed, and since Natalie doesn't talk much about life with them, who knows what they were doing before I met them? Maybe they were partners with Dale in one of his illegal enterprises. But I hope it isn't them, I really don't," his face scrunched uncomfortably, "I'd really hate to have to tell Julie that her grandparents are cold-blooded killers; it would break her heart."

"Well, let's look at everyone else then, Adrian," Dr. Kroger proposed, "Who else might possibly be Agent X?"

"Pretty much everyone," Adrian sighed, "But I really hope it's Harold, and really, he'd be my first choice right now; he has clear motive and opportunity, and he fits the OCD trail that's been laid out, in case Avery McNall isn't the only one with OCD here."

"But suppose the killer wants you to just think it's Harold," Dr. Kroger pointed out, "Given the animosity between you two, it stands to reason he'd make a convenient fall guy for the crimes."

"But he also said he wanted me to pay for his own mistakes," Adrian smiled contentedly, "That's a pretty good reason if you ask me."

"Well, let's look at everyone else too," Dr. Kroger shifted about in his chair, "Logically, it's possible the conversation you heard just now may have been inverted; you don't know what Jonathan's been doing the last few weeks, have you?"

"No," Adrian admitted, "And I'll admit, he's spent most of his life in his parents' shadow, and now his sister's as well since the show took off. Maybe he's jealous of them and looked to Dale to even the odds, so to speak. Actually, now that you mention that, Gail might be in the same conundrum; living in Sharona's shadow, maybe she's desperate for attention. Although, that's not too much to go on for either of them, really. Tell me," he leaned forward in his seat, "How well did you know Dr. Bell when you were, you know, alive? I still don't know all that much about him, and..."

"I knew Neven for twenty-two years, Adrian; unless he was exceptionally good at keeping secrets from me, I can assure you he's not a killer," Dr. Kroger assured him.

"Good, because I don't really want to have to go through the trouble of getting another psychiatrist all over again," Adrian breathed in relief, "That last time was torture, pure torture."

"But you survived, didn't you?" Dr. Kroger pointed out, "Who else do you think has possibility with this? Your father?"

"Why would he want to do it when he's dying of cancer?" Adrian posed, "It would make no logical sense to want to sell his soul to the devil that Dale is when he's probably got eighteen months left. Still, he certainly wasn't there when Shalhoub was shot, and I lost track of him the night the Kights were killed from when we went into the fairgrounds until after I left the stage; if he were involved, that would be plenty of time to help Kashner and Montandon commit the acts. And," he sighed, years of lingering pent-up frustration over being abandoned as a child so long ago coming up to the surface, "There's no telling what else he did during those forty years away from me. Perhaps he ran into someone who worked for Dale and...I don't know, I really don't."

"How about your brother, then?"

"I can't really think of a reason Ambrose would want to see me dead other than jealousy," Adrian confessed, "And I think we've reestablished a good enough connection with each other again that he wouldn't hide things like that from me even if he was jealous. Besides, I can't see any way he'd be in contact with Dale...unless of course, Kashner or Montandon went to his house between my visits there," he realized, "Plus, he's certainly smart enough to keep me guessing as long as I have been so far; if it's him, we could be in big trouble; I could never crack his mind back in the day when we'd play mental games as kids."

"So you did play with each other? Interesting," Dr. Kroger mused.

"Well, it, it wasn't really playing per se," Adrian admitted, "More like who had memorized the dictionaries the most thoroughly, things like that that normal people would consider ridiculous."

"Well ridiculous is a relative term, Adrian, as I'm sure you know by now," his late psychiatrist assured him, "Moving on, what about your half-brother?"

"Jack Jr. really has me wondering right now," Adrian nodded grimly, "He was in San Quentin for several months after he got arrested for ripping off the cars; depending on how much freedom of movement he had in there, he could have had easy access to Dale, and if Dale offered him the moon, he'd probably take the deal; Jack Jr. would do anything for a quick buck, as I'm sure you've seen if you've been watching everything that's been going on this week. And if that's true," his face fell, "I have to consider the possibility he's been playing me from the beginning, that there was more to his breakout that meets the eye. That maybe he'd already made the deal with Dale before he escaped, and used the whole episode to get me to trust him. Dale's corrupted the prison staff there before; maybe he set that whole crime up from his cell to make me trust Jack Jr. so I wouldn't suspect anything."

"Ah," Dr. Kroger merely mumbled, "I see you've had some run-ins with Karen lately as well?"

"I'm starting to wonder there too," the detective confessed, "If she was simply having a swelled head from making several high-grossing films, I don't think she'd be as harsh to us all as she's been. I've seen something in her eyes, something saying that there's more to her attitude towards us than just an inflated ego; maybe Dale's been financing her career in secret, some kind of contract that he'd make her a star director in exchange for her services to him. But I won't move until I'm sure it's her, if it is her in fact," he held up his hand, "After what happened last time, I'm not taking any chances."

"And that's good thinking, Adrian," Dr. Kroger commended him, "Mr. Turcotte?"

"Well, Harold, much as I loathe him, did have a point in the restaurant; John did seem to pick up on what's been going on here rather quickly, and it's a bit amazing he'd faced off with both Kashner and Montandon before. It's like he knew what was going on, that he wanted to make sure Kashner died up there on the roof without giving anything away. And he'd have a lot to lose if he was the killer, not least of all his daughter's respect."

"Interesting," Dr. Kroger remarked, "How about the Ellisons?"

"Impossible," Adrian shook his head firmly, "Dwight hates Dale with a passion, and I don't think he'd be so bent on stopping the festival for everyone's safety if he was behind all this...I think."

"Ms. Trumbull?"

"You know, I wouldn't think it was Cathy at first thought, but it is rather suspicious that she took so long to get here; flight delays usually don't last that long. Assuming, that is, she wasn't already here before and then showed up late to make it look like a flight delay; with all due respect to Randy, he's had the wool pulled over his eyes like that several times since I first met him."

"Sergeant Christie?"

"I don't think it's Joe; the only way that really comes to mind is if he actually did steal the drugs after all and needed Dale's help to cover the whole thing up. But that's really stretching it...isn't it?"

"Perhaps. The captain?" the psychiatrist posed next.

"Why would he take such a chance knowing his whole family would be here this week?" the detective frowned, "He wouldn't want to be exposed with them around; he'd lose them for good, plus his badge and the fans' respect. I just wouldn't believe it off the top of my head that it was him. I've known him for over twenty years, and not once has he come close to being a dirty cop--rough, absolutely, but not dirty. Unless I've taken our friendship for granted, that is, and haven't looked close enough..."

"The lieutenant?"

"Randy may be a bit slow sometimes, but he's no killer either. Still, I can guess he's not entirely happy that people all over the country see him as a buffoon. Who knows, maybe if it really rankles him, he'd want...no, it's impossible, this is Randy we're talking about...isn't it?"

"Perhaps, Adrian. Or perhaps not. Sharona?"

"Why? We didn't always get along, but even when she was threatening to deck my lights out because of her petty complaints that I didn't pay her enough, there was mutual respect. Besides, she's making enough money now as a consultant to the show, so there's no reason I can see she'd want to sell out to Dale for the money, plus no way he'd be able to reach her back in Summit. And if it was over jealousy that Natalie's displaced her, which would be the only logical reason I could think of for taking Dale's bait, why wasn't Natalie the first one killed? Unless," his expression crashed uncomfortably, "unless she's been up to something else in New Jersey over the last five years that she never told me or anyone about..."

"Natalie?"

"Oh please don't even suggest that," Adrian openly grimaced, "It can't possibly be Natalie...can it?"

"Well, do you see a reason, Adrian?"

"No," the detective shook his head emphatically, "We disagree from time to time, but she's not an aggressive type; she'd never stoop to murder, never....I hope. Let's see," he mulled it over in his mind, "Anyone else? Oh yes, the archbishop..."

"Don't worry, Mr. Monk, it certainly isn't me," came Archbishop Fitzwater's voice from the other side of the patio door. The priest slid it open. "Oh hello there," he inexplicably waved at Dr. Kroger's spirit, "Don't be panicked; I mean no harm for you or Mr. Monk."

"How...you can...!?" Adrian was shocked.

"Oh, I suppose it was only natural given my line of work that I could expect contact with a higher realm at some point or another," the archbishop almost laughed. "I presume you were Dr. Charles Kroger in this realm of existence?" he asked the psychiatrist, "The way Mr. Monk speaks of you, I count it a disappointment we never met in life."

"Indeed, Father," Dr. Kroger reached forward and--sort of--shook his hand, "Well, now that Adrian's run over his theories, what's your thoughts?"

"Well," Archbishop Fitzwater turned to Adrian, "I may not claim to know too much about being a detective, but intuitively my advice to solving the case, Mr. Monk, would be to pretend you are the murderer. Enact out the crimes in your mind, and try and deduce what that person's mindset was when he or she committed his or her crimes, taking into particular account the severity of the fate dealt out to each victim. I cannot claim it is a perfect way to solve this matter, but I am fairly confident that once you have in essence become our killer, that you are sharing his or her state of mind at the time the murders were committed and are able to perfectly act our their moves, you'll stand a good chance of figuring out who it is."

"The old Father Brown method of thinking, yes," Adrian nodded, "I'd forgotten you were a fan of that. Well, here's, here's the thing: I'd love to take that advice, Father, but I can't help wondering, in the movies and TV, it always seems the one who gives the most help to the hero ends up the killer."

He stared at the priest. "Yes, Mr. Monk, I have noticed that myself, and it is a sure sign given how much of a paradigm it is these days how much the cinema has declined in the last few years," Archbishop Fitzwater sighed, "But again, I can..."

There came a low groan from below the patio, followed by the thump of someone hitting the ground. "Damn stupid concrete slab!" Bobby was growling, "I don't know why the hell Monk had to bring this damn thing up here!"

"I know," Peggy's voice rose up as well, "Why don't we just dump the horrid thing in the lake and tell him the killer stole it during the night?"

Adrian's blood pressure shot up. "Don't you dare!" he shouted down at the Davenports below him, "No one but me touches the last thing my wife saw before she died, understand!?"

"Monk, what are you doing out this late!?" Bobby shouted irritatedly at him.

"Actually, Mr. Davenport, I could ask you the same question," the detective called down solemnly, "It so happens I heard Jonathan's conversation with you earlier..."

"That was a private conversation between us and our son!" Peggy lambasted him, "Spy!"

"But, I may point out, he brought up some intriguing points in it," Adrian dared to lean over the side of the railing and fix a firm gaze on his assistant's parents, "So I'd like the absolute truth from the two of you: are either or both of you hiding something from us about any involvement with Dale Beiderbeck, yes or no? If it's yes, telling me the truth now will be so much easier for you than continuing to cover it up."

"We have nothing to say to you!" Peggy hissed venomously, "And you know what!?" her voice went way up, livid, "It's all your fault our family's screwed up these days, Mr. Monk!"

"Me!!??" he gasped.

"If you hadn't dragged us here to this stupid festival, we wouldn't be losing Jonathan to that two-bit actress in the first place!" she bellowed, "And if you hadn't barged into that wedding uninvited four years ago, I could still hate Mitch Teeger without guilt today!"

"But your son would have been dead once the bride you trusted killed him off," the detective protested, "Doesn't that mean anything to you!?"

"He does have a point there, dearest," Bobby pointed out to his wife.

"Robert Neville Davenport, whose side are you taking here!?" she upbraided him, "As I was saying," she glared back up at the patio, "We are not hiding anything, and you'd better not ask again if you know what's good for you, Mr. Monk. Now good night!"

She stormed around the far side of the cabin. "She's right about that," Bobby told the detective firmly, "We have nothing to hide, Mr. Monk, so just leave us alone, OK!? Peg?"

He followed his wife out of Adrian's line of sight. Adrian shivered, and not just because of the snowflakes beginning to fall. The Davenports had never been that harsh before that he'd seen, even when bashing Mitch when he'd first met them. "Then again," he confided to the archbishop and the late psychiatrist, "Maybe I am right the first time and it is them."

"Perhaps. Still, they do have a point on one thing, Adrian," Dr. Kroger gestured for him to sit down, "There really was no reason for you to bring that parking garage wall here."

"Why does no one understand!?" Adrian rolled his eyes in disgust, "I've said it before and I'll say it again; Trudy needs to be represented here, and..."

"It seems to me you simply don't want to let go of the past again, Adrian," his former psychiatrist shook his head, "Not to mention you're trying to get back at Harold as a way of releasing your frustration over losing that vote."

"He manipulated the council to go along with him on it," the detective asserted, "I'll never be able to prove it, sure, but I know he was the prime marshaller of force to tear the garage down, and I know he changed the voting rules right then and there in the hall to take advantage of Maria's change of heart--which was my fault, I'll admit that much; I should have made the summation in private with the killer knowing that the linchpin of his plan was that she's an idiot who was the perfect patsy for it--but anyway, you can't call me vindictive when he clearly broke the law then and there to..."

"And what would saving the garage have accomplished, really?" Dr. Kroger leaned forward in his seat, "I'm sorry, Adrian, but I'd have to agree with Neven on this one; holding onto the garage is holding you back from finding true happiness in life again. And I can assure you that after almost twelve years, there would have been nothing left in there to find related to her death."

"Well, who said I wanted to find true happiness again?" Adrian countered, "Without Trudy, what true happiness is there in the world? None that I can see."

"Really? I would think the basic aim of any human being in this world would be the pursuit of happiness," Archbishop Fitzwater spoke up, "Death isn't only physical, Mr. Monk. No one ever truly dies who is beloved, so as long as you continue to love your wife, she isn't really dead. And every seemingly bad turn leads to a good one in the end. Look at that park that's going up as I speak now; out of the ashes of something tragic, namely your wife's death and the destruction of the garage, is rising something beautiful, something that will give thousands of people pleasure for years to come and ensure your wife is never forgotten by anyone. That will do so much more good for the city than that parking garage ever could on its own. Besides, the council did agree to leave part of the garage wall up inside the park as a compromise, did they not?"

"Well, yes, but it's not the whole thing," Adrian protested, "And knowing Harold, even after having been thrown off the Council, he'll find a way to get rid of that too; I know how his mind works..."

"And aren't you forgetting that if it hadn't been for him, I would have been in this state a lot more quicker than I did in the end?" Dr. Kroger pointed at his vapory form, "You really don't give him enough credit, Adrian."

"Ah, but you didn't see the look in his face afterwards," Adrian smiled slyly, "He only saved us to gain your favor. His black heart knows no true compassion; that's why..."

"Oh my, this really is starting to become a storm," Archbishop Fitzwater glanced up at the sky; the snowflakes were falling faster than ever now, "I certainly hope this won't curtail the train ride tomorrow; I was quite looking forward to that. Well, at any rate, might as well go back to sleep."

"Guess I'll do the same," Adrian rose up, "So, you'll still be around if I need you?" he asked Dr. Kroger.

"If I sense you need someone to talk to, I'll be there," Dr. Kroger nodded, "And think about what the archbishop and I said, Adrian; to really love Trudy, you'll have to let back of her die so her better parts can live. Surely you'd want to remember some brighter things about her than the parking garage, don't you?"

He faded away again before Adrian could answer. Shrugging, the detective followed the archbishop back inside, trying to apply Fitzwater's theory about becoming the killer to his own usual deductive measures. Unfortunately, the answer wasn't immediately clearer to him. Perhaps a good night's sleep, if Ambrose would allow it, would be beneficial, assuming nothing else went wrong before dawn...


	13. Unburdening of the Souls

"Adrian?" Ambrose whispered down from the top bunk, "Are you awake?"

"Yes Ambrose; I've been awake since quarter after four," Adrian groaned softly; his brother's snoring hadn't stopped until about four minutes ago.

"Quarter after four? Boy, this whole set of murders must really have you uptight," his brother remarked, prompting Adrian to growl softly and ball his fist. The instruction manual writer leaned his head over the side of the bunk. "I had an incredible dream," he whispered, "It was a bright sunny day, and I was walking up the aisle with Natalie to get married. Everyone was smiling, we were all completely happy; even Mom was there somehow." He let out a deep sigh. "Do you ever dream of that, Adrian?"

"Of marrying Natalie?"

"In particular; or of marrying anyone again, really?"

"Who knows, Ambrose," Adrian sighed, "I have a promise to Trudy to stay loyal, but everyone seems to think...Natalie's an attractive woman, I'll concede that much, but my gut is we'd never work together as a couple...am I right?"

"Never mind you asking that," Ambrose said, nervousness in his voice, "Tell me honestly, Adrian, do you think I might have a chance with her if she were to...you know, if she was....?"

Adrian's gut instinct was that Natalie wouldn't be able to take care of Ambrose twenty-four/seven as would likely be required (since she often complained enough about having to take care of the detective himself, he doubted she'd have the ability to handle his brother under those same guidelines). He didn't want to say that to Ambrose's face, though. "Um, well, Ambrose, there's, there's really only one way to find out," he said, "Just go on up and ask her how she feels."

"I can't," Ambrose fidgeted nervously, "I can't do it, Adrian; I don't have the backbone like you do. And if she'd say no, I don't think I could handle the rejection. Maybe if we make it out of this festival alive, once we're back in San Francisco, I'll text message her and see what comes of that. You think that'll work?"

Adrian rolled his eyes in the dim light. "Whatever makes the most sense to you, Ambrose," he said, trying to strain out the sarcasm.

"Good, guess I'll try that then," Ambrose said, relieved. There was a brief moment of silence before he asked again, "Adrian, do you think I'd make a good father?"

"You dreamt you had kids too?"

"Not in this dream, no, but I have thought about it some times," the instruction manual writer admitted, "Maybe part of the empty feeling I have day after day is not having children to raise; some clinical studies suggest that family does in fact make us happier. Then again," he sighed, depressed, "What kind of life would I give to them? I wouldn't be able to go to any of their functions, I'd probably drive them nuts memorizing all my books and..."

"Ambrose," Adrian spoke up, eager to bring out a point that had been dogging him all week, "Have you ever stopped to notice this week that maybe, just maybe, most if not all of the agoraphobia may just be in your mind?"

"Huh?"

"I'm just saying, this week you've been outside a whole lot more than you've been inside," the detective laid it out for him, "And you complained about it a whole lot less. So maybe you've just been uptight for nothing after all these years."

"Hmm," Ambrose mused, "Haven't really looked it at that way. But I assure you, Adrian, I do have the condition; my heads still spins a little when I go out from under a roof; it was doing that all last night, for starters. Still, ever since Dad came back, it has been getting better."

"You see, all it took was a fresh perspective, and life got so much easier," Adrian said, relieved Ambrose was finally showing some maturity on the matter, "If you do get up the courage to marry, you'll probably put it all behind you."

"But that's a probably, not a definitely," Ambrose pointed out to him, "I hope it would be Natalie; there's really no one else I can think of that would see me as a match at the moment."

He sighed again. "There's a big part of me, Adrian, that really wants to know what it's like to live a normal life," he confessed, "What it would be like to come home from work every day to someone who loves you, who wants to be with you. I hope it's in the cards that I get that chance, to be able to hold a woman close and tell her she's the greatest thing that ever happened to me. To lift up a child and be glad they're yours. That's why I want to beat the agoraphobia for good some day, to be able to have that before my time ends. Because I guess it was the greatest thing in the world when you could do that with Trudy, right, Adrian?"

"There was no bad in the world when I could do that, Ambrose," Adrian told him glumly, "When she was waiting in the apartment for me to come home, it didn't matter how hard of a day I had or how many people were dead in the city because of some killer on the loose; I had her, and that was all that mattered."

"Yeah," Ambrose sighed dreamily, "And whenever the two of you would come over to visit, that would make my day too. She'd always smiled at me in a special way that made me feel like I was more important than any world leader. I really hope you can finally get the Judge and whoever else may be involved soon; twelve years has been too long a wait for me to know for sure what happened."

"Way too long," Adrian agreed, "You, you do remember though, Ambrose, what I've told you time and time again since we started talking again, that it's not your fault she was killed?"

"Oh yeah, I'm, I'm way past that now," Ambrose told him, "And thank you, Adrian, for helping me get over that. I know I'm probably not the person you'd most want to be around, but I wouldn't want anyone else for a brother."

"Really?" Adrian was taken aback at Ambrose's sincerity.

"Absolutely," the instruction manual writer leaned over the side of the bunk, "When you started showing up again, my life got so much better. I guess not having a family around made the agoraphobia all that much worse. By having you back in my life these last seven years, I learned to start living again. Having Dad come back set the process further along; now that we're really a family again, I feel better than I have in years. And it couldn't have happened if you hadn't forgiven me for not showing up at the funeral; I would have called, but given that I thought it was my fault she'd died, I was scared that you thought the same way and would have yelled at me to get out of..."

"Ambrose, I never once thought it was your fault," Adrian assured him, "If you'd just called to say it hurt too much to be at the funeral, that would have been fine by me. Really, I deserve as much fault. I did the same thing I did to Dad with you: I held an unnecessary grudge because I didn't know the whole story--well, with Dad I was warranted to a point, but looking back I did carry the resentment a little too far. And Ambrose," he glanced right up at his brother, "I am sorry. I didn't realize how much it would hurt you not to have me around. But you're right; even though you drive me insane, you are my brother, and I'm glad that, well, you're you. And I'm glad we are a family again--actually, something Dad told me the other day's right when I really think about it: all of us," he gestured at the walls of their bedroom, and by extension the rest of the cabin itself, "Are a family ourselves--a big, somewhat screwed up family lots of the time, but really, a family nonetheless," a smile crossed his face, one that quickly evaporated, though, at the realization that one member of his extended "family" had gone rogue--could it even be Ambrose himself?

His brother choked up with emotion. Before Ambrose could say anything, however, there came a knocking at the door. "Aren't you two up yet?" Dwight called in, "It's quarter after nine; the train's going to leave in an hour and fifteen minutes. I'm sure you're going to want breakfast, am I right?"

"Yes indeed, Mr. Ellison, we'll be up in no time," Ambrose called back. "Oh boy, I've never been on a real train before," he exclaimed, sliding the bunk and almost landing on top of his brother, "There were times I wanted to when Mom got us that train set when I was nine, the one that you wouldn't play with because the track didn't form a perfect circle when it was completely assembled. This should be fun."

"So you're going to listen to me and go out and try it?" Adrian was glad he was, regardless; leaving Ambrose alone at the cabin at this point in time would have been asking for the killer, provided it wasn't actually Ambrose himself, to take him out.

"Might as well; now I can say I tried it, that for once I wasn't the coward," Ambrose proclaimed optimistically, starting to dress, "Besides, the train has a roof, doesn't it? I'll be just fine, really."

Adrian couldn't help suppress a smile. It was certainly a good sign that his brother actually wanted to try something outdoors. He dressed quickly himself and headed downstairs to the kitchen. A quick glance out the window showed about a half inch of snow on the ground, glistening in the morning sun. The detective remembered how quickly it snowed even in the middle of fall up in the foothills of the Cascades. Hopefully this wouldn't impede their paths out of Breckman Lake in case they had to follow his father-in-law's plan for an emergency exit in case the killer were to strike again. A set of pancakes had been set up on the island, along with a bottle of Summit Creek. Dr. Bell was standing next to it with his coat on, taking a swig of orange juice. "Good, Adrian, you're up," he told his patient, "We were getting a little worried you were going to sleep in on us and miss the day."

"Wasn't planning on it," Adrian frowned at the pancakes, "Um, I can't eat these; the edges aren't rounded off."

"Not from what I can see," Dr. Bell shook his head.

"Oh, it's there," Adrian assured him strongly. Any remark his psychiatrist may have made to dissuade his opinion was cut off as the back door opened and Stottlemeyer tramped in, a snow shovel in hand. "Well, we've finally got the path dug out to the treeline," he told Dr. Bell, "Now we've just got to..."

"You're dripping on the carpet, wipe it off, wipe your shoes off!" Adrian all but screamed at his superior. Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes. "Tell you what, Monk; why not come with us and cut some firewood; that should take your mind off the wet rug," he said as calmly as he could manage, "Mr. Ellison asked for a spare pile for the fire since it'll be around twenty tonight."

"Uh, I guess so; let me get ready first, though," Adrian strode into the living room. Opening several chests, he took out a tape measure, a black marker, and his claw. "Ready," he announced, putting on his coat. "Uh, Jack," he hailed his half brother as he came off the stairs onto the first floor, "You, you can handle the mess on the kitchen floor."

"Huh?" Jack Jr. frowned, but Adrian was already following Dr. Bell and the captain out the door. The detective immediately wished he'd brought some stilts, for his shoes immediately felt moist from the snow. Disher was already at the woodpile, examining pieces of wood. "Oh, Monk, you're up," he greeted the detective.

"That, that one's wrong," Adrian pointed at the one in the lieutenant's hand, "There's a pair of indentations on the top of the block. Let me take a look here," he took the claw and picked up several pieces of wood one at a time, "Um, too uneven...not a perfect cylinder...discolored here in the center..."

"Monk, the wood's going to get burned up anyway; what difference does it make if it's not a perfect cylinder!?" Stottlemeyer groaned, "Here, let me have that," he took the discolored piece off of Disher, laid it on the chopping block, and hefted the ax on it. "Not yet, not yet," Adrian stepped forward. He measured the wood lengthwise and width-wise, then slowly and methodically drew a line with the marker right down the middle. "So, Captain," Dr. Bell spoke up, noticing Stottlemeyer's disgust at the continued delay, "What're you going to do once you retire next year?"

"Take a month off down in Mexico, I was thinking," Stottlemeyer remarked, "Preferably with the boys if they're willing to speak to me again; it's been too long since we were all on vacation together. I just want some time away from the hustle and bustle of police work. That's good, Monk," he shooed the detective away once he'd drawn the line all the way across the log, raised the ax, and chopped it clean in two. "Next one," he gestured at Disher, who dropped an entire handful of logs at once onto the chopping block. Stottlemeyer rolled his eyes and shoved all but one to the ground. "It's just time to move on," he said, waiting for Adrian to draw another line on the next log, "After thirty years as a cop, I just feel worn down...no, not by you, Monk," he noticed the detective's forlorn look at this statement, "In fact, I consider it a great honor to have worked with you all these years, and not just because working with you's made me world famous. Working with you's taught me a lot about life, and overcoming everything that gets thrown at you by it."

"Well, I wouldn't say..." Adrian started to say.

"I mean it Monk. Ten years ago, if someone would have asked me whether I thought you had a chance of ever living a normal life again, my answer would have been a resounding no, that it wouldn't be remotely possible. Now look at how far you've come since then: over a hundred cases solved, you've started trying other women again, and your ticks have gotten back kind of close to where they were when Trudy died," he raised his eyebrows as the detective started sweeping the sawdust up into a plastic bag, but continued, "That's a hell of a lot of odds you've beaten, and heck, if you can overcome it, anyone can. And you know, I first started realizing that about three months after the divorce, when I was looking for any hope of light that things could get better. Once I started thinking of how you and I were alike in having lost our wives, it became clear that if you could survive, I could survive, and I think that's why the people around the world like you too, Monk; you are an inspiration to them."

Adrian could feel himself blushing slightly. "Hey, Captain, Monk," Christie came walking out of the woods, waving, "Just came back from a morning walk (Adrian couldn't help wondering how true that might have been, though); need a hand with that?"

"By all means," Stottlemeyer handed him the ax and stepped back. "Yep, we do set a pretty good precedent, don't we?" Disher remarked, "Well, depending on how long the series goes, I wonder how they'll accept me as captain? I'd hate to think we'd jump the shark with someone else in the position, especially since I have so much to bring to the job."

"Indeed you do, O fearless soon-to-be-leader," Stottlemeyer commented with another eye roll.

"I mean, I'm not one-dimensional," the lieutenant continued, handing Christie more wood, "I did solve the case at my uncle's farm, didn't I, Monk?"

"Oh absolutely, Randy," Adrian said quickly, "And it was very impressive indeed. You, you really do deserve the promotion."

"I know," Disher smiled, "And I promise Monk, I'll do whatever I can to get you reinstated for good; you deserve it as well. Which makes me wonder," his brow furled, "Wouldn't we jump the shark if you get reinstated too?"

"The series has to end when and if I find Trudy's killer, Randy," Adrian told him, sealing the bag of sawdust and digging out another one to continue his task, "Since that's the be-all-end-all driving factor in my life, that's how it should end. And indeed, is that where it ends for me?" it was his turn to look puzzled, "How can I cope once I do solve it? It's been the driving factor in my life for twelve years; what will I do if it's solved and I still can't get reinstated? Do I really have anything left to live for if that happens?"

"Life will present an option somewhere, Adrian," Dr. Bell assured him, setting down the next block for Christie to chop, "Perhaps you could go cross-country as a motivational speaker, letting the masses see you as a real person and letting them know what you've overcome."

"I, I don't know," the detective admitted, "I'd much rather they come to San Francisco if they want to hear me speak. Well, at least I won't be forgotten; if what you said's right, if we are making a positive contribution to people's lives just by getting along," he glanced back at the captain, "We will sort of live forever. Although," he looked back at Dr. Bell, "I'm not sure if all of us will; those that came into my life later..."

"I have no problem with that, Adrian," Dr. Bell assured him, "I haven't sought fame, even after I lost my head a little when my first paper got published. Charles made the most progress in getting you back to where you are anyway, so he should have the lion's share of credit for that, really."

"You, you don't have to worry about that; I think Dr. Kroger will be first in the fans' hearts anyway," Adrian said, sealing off another bag of sawdust, "Boy," he exhaled, glancing around, "Hard to believe it's been eight long years since I decided to come back out of my shell and get back to what I liked doing best, breaking cases on the streets. Seems like just yesterday, really. You know, I've had a feeling for a while that I'm getting close to solving Trudy's case, like the answer's just around the corner. And then, even if I do get reinstated, we'll all go our separate ways eventually, since I won't need an assistant or psychiatrist once I know what happened to Trudy. I wonder what everyone else is going to do when they don't need me anymore?"

* * *

"That was quite good, thank you," Natalie handed her plate to Marsha on the patio.

"It's an old family recipe," Dwight's wife told her with a smile, "Trudy always loved waking up to these pancakes when she was a girl."

"I'm sure she did," Natalie glanced down the patio at her brother and Gail, finishing up their breakfast with their arms around each other. "And I see you two are doing quite well keeping warm in this cold weather," he teased them.

"Tell that to your parents," Gail snorted, "They've been as cold as this weather all morning to me; I got the harshest glares from them coming out of the bathroom this morning."

"And I told them to back off!" Jonathan rolled his eyes in disgust, "Better make sure you have some extra space in San Francisco, Nat," he told his sister wearily, "If they keep it up, I'm moving in with you. Nothing says Monk can't have two assistants, right?"

"So you think you're game enough to walk the means streets of San Francisco with Adrian Monk?" Sharona piped up from the railing, "Just so you know, you'd be on call twenty-four hours a day, you wouldn't be able to have your own life without him needing you for every single little problem in his life, and you'll be butting heads with some really sick and twisted people. Not to mention you won't be able to go anywhere without him. Now do you think you've really got what it takes to handle all that?"

"Uh," Jonathan looked less certain now, "Maybe. We'll see how it goes. Was that why you left, anyway, because it became too much to bear being with him?"

"A little," Sharona sighed at having to answer the question yet again, "But mostly for my son's sake. Adrian Monk is really best taken in small doses anyway; seven whole years really is the maximum you can take it, I think, so I guess I deserve some credit for lasting that long. Still, the strange thing is that I thought after I'd left him that I was glad to have it all over with. I never thought I'd end up missing him, or everyone else so much. That's why it's been so good to keep coming back again, especially now when I've spent all that time alone in..."

She stopped suddenly, as if she'd gone farther than she'd liked to have. "Alone?" Marsha inquired, "Let me guess, with your son in college now..."

"Yeah," the nurse nodded, looking sad, "Much as I said we'd all have to face letting go of our children the other Christmas in Gettysburg," she admitted to Natalie, "I've found it's a lot easier in theory than in actual practice. Sure, Benjy's less than forty miles away, really just across the Delaware, but when you've got no one else around, it feels so much longer. The last two months, I've spend a lot of time just staring at the walls after sunset, feeling like..."

She sniffed back tears. "He got me through the lowest points of my life many times over," she confessed, "Every time Adrian was driving me insane on a case, and I just wanted to kill him, I'd come home, and Benjy would be there with a smile and unconditional love that I needed to reaffirm that there was so much good in the world. Knowing that he didn't care what I had been doing when he was born, that he loved me nonetheless, that gave me the strength to face Dex head-on. Without him around now, I just...I just feel lost, like the world's passed me by, and there's no one left to help me if I need it. I try to put up with it as best I can, but I just miss him so much..."

"You know, you could start dating again," Natalie suggested to her.

"I don't know," Sharona shook her head, "I don't know if I really want to try marriage again. Once was really enough for me. And since everyone else I've tried to date seems to not be who they say they are...I don't want to be fooled again, so it's just not worth it."

She exhaled deeply. "I just needed this week here," she admitted, "Anything to relieve the solitude. I probably won't come to any more fan festivals, but I needed this one. Even if no one else up here seems to think anything of me anymore."

"Don't think that," Ambrose stuck his head through the patio door, "We all think highly of you. Adrian's right; you started him down the road to recovery. And if you hadn't insisted on bringing him over when I'd thought Pat Van Rankin had killed his wife, I wouldn't have gotten to know him again, and for that I can't thank you enough."

"Exactly," Natalie rubbed her predecessor's shoulder, "You don't have to be alone if you don't want to; you can always call if anytime if you need someone to talk to. I'm always open to friends."

"Same here," Marsha dug out a piece of paper and pencil, "This is my number; call me if you feel alone."

She handed it to the nurse. "Thanks," Sharona smiled, looking better now. "While we're on this," she turned to Natalie again, "Has Julie decided on a college yet?"

"We're down to Cal St.-Bakersfield, the University of San Francisco, and Stanford," Natalie told her, "I made it clear to her I wanted her to stay in-state, but I'm also prepared to step back and let her have some air to make her own decisions; that's the parents' obligation at her age, anyway. Yeah, I'll probably get lonely too--that's pretty much to be expected, since she got me through some rough points as well--but I'll be glad that she's made it all the way through school and will probably do well in the world. That's basically all I've wanted, that she have a good life come what may."

"I know," Sharona nodded knowingly, "All I've wanted for Benjy too is that he'd have a better life than I had growing up, and thanks to Adrian and the show, he certainly will. So I must have done something right. Speaking of the show, actually," her expression became more complex, "Are they going to stop when he catches Trudy's killer? That would seem the best way to end it."

"Logically it would be," Ambrose remarked, "And I hope somehow all of us end up in the solving of that if possible, so we can all share the glory with him."

"Well, I don't see how that could be possible, but then again, you never know," the nurse shrugged, "I'll feel a lot better, too, when he does catch the Judge or whoever else is involved; then he'll probably be back to what passes for normal for him, and I won't have to worry about him calling in the middle of the night about some dire emergency; that's actually been on my mind ever since I left. Good thing Dr. Kroger only had to call me once."

"Huh?" Ambrose asked.

"Before I made the final decision to go back to Trevor, I called Dr. Kroger and gave him my number just in case something absolutely dire would happen that Adrian would need me for. Dr. Kroger put me on standby when he was having that breakdown thinking she was still alive, but in the end he got over it on his own and I wasn't needed. While I was bent on moving on even back then, I knew that I'd better present a safety net for him in an emergency. Luckily, seeing how much progress he's made, I don't think I'd be needed for that anymore if something went horribly wrong, and certainly I have lots of people to thank for weaning him off me, hard as it no doubt was for him," she gave Natalie a thumbs-up, "So now hopefully he'll catch Trudy's killer soon so I can stop worrying once and for all. Of course, if he insists I come celebrate that with him on it, I guess I could accommodate it; after all, it was with my help that he got pointed towards Frank Nunn in the first place."

"See, you're thinking positive already," Ambrose commended her, "I could recommend my place for it; haven't had a real party there in about thirty-five years."

"Wonderful," Jack Jr. appeared next to his half-brother and slapped him on the back, "I'll bring the refreshments when the time comes."

"Well you know, you aren't an automatic guest, if we even have that party anyway," Sharona upbraided him with a scowl, "A party may turn out to be in bad taste depending on what he finds out about her murder in the end. And since we've seen you picking everyone's pockets since you showed up here this week, that's another strike against you. I value every cent I make, and I don't want your hands all over it."

"Hand to God, I don't steal from friends," Jack Jr. thrust his arm in the air.

"Whatever," she ignored him and turned back to her successor. "What are you going to do once Adrian solves Trudy's case, if he does solve it? Still going to stay with him?"

"Well, I'll cross that bridge when I get to it," Natalie told her, "I certainly am not going to leave him completely alone, not since we've built up so much over the last five years. Still, I'd like a nice long vacation somewhere to clear my mind for a while, maybe for a month or so."

"Uh, completely by yourself?" Ambrose spoke up, quaking nervously, "Uh, not to intrude too much, Natalie, but, um, if you're interested in any company, I, uh...what I'm saying is..."

"What he's saying is he loves you with every ounce of his being and would give the world if you could make yourself Mr. Ambrose Monk," Jack Jr. finished.

"Did you have to do that!?" Ambrose begged him.

"It's OK, Ambrose," Natalie stood up and walked towards him, "I'm always glad to have you along to go somewhere outside the house. And you are a good, caring man, someone that would make a perfect husband to some lucky woman."

"R-R-R-R-Really?" the instruction manual writer abruptly fainted. "Lovely," Sharona sighed, bending down over him, "My work's never done this week."

"Just hope this is the worst it is from here on; none of us want any more tragedies to deal with," Natalie said. She looked over the railing and glanced around the property. "You haven't seen Mom and Dad all morning?" she asked her brother.

"Not since they were getting snappy at Gail when I got up," Jonathan shook his head, "They said they were going for another walk; this isn't like them at all. And actually, Nat, I think there's something you may need to know about..."

* * *

"Lake looks damn lovely at this time of year, Mr. Ellison," Jack Sr. commended Dwight as the latter sat down next to him on a bench halfway to the waterline.

"Brochures back in the day said this has some of the best foliage this time of year," Dwight agreed, "Several fall weekends up here back in the 70s confirmed that for us. Trudy always loved it when the colors were at their peak. She said it was Nature's time to be creative."

"I'll bet she did," the former trucker agreed. So tell me," he turned to face his benefactor for the week, "How did you survive, you know, losing her? It must have been murder in it's own right--no offense--to go through life right after she passed on."

"To tell you the truth, Mr. Monk, there was a stretch of a couple of weeks when I was planning to rent a boat, drive it way out into the Pacific, and throw myself overboard," Dwight confessed, "I didn't want to live without her. Then I found her diary when I was going through her room. She'd written this one entry--Adrian said he'd come across it as well when he stopped by a few years ago--where she said that no one should have to feel sad forever. She'd just lost her dog not long before that, and had been depressed for a while herself, but she was able to look past it in the end and move on. If she could do that, why couldn't I? So you might say she saved my life in a way."

"Well, I guess that's her way of saying she loved you," Jack shrugged, "It's just too bad I could never get those kind of signs from my family back in the day. If I had known they were capable of expressing real emotion, maybe I wouldn't have left in the first place."

"But the question is, why did you find the need to leave a wife and two young boys behind anyway?" Dwight fixed him with a sharp look.

"Am I never going to hear the end of it from anyone!?" Jack sighed in resignation.

"Well Mr. Monk, it was a grave thing to do regardless of whatever your intentions may have been. I just hope you can see how wrong it was."

"Believe me, I do, Mr. Ellison; I've had forty-three years to think it over, and realize that they probably would have ended up more normal if I'd stayed; my boys, that is," Jack tried to explain, "The thing is, I probably married my wife too early. I was eighteen, I was roaming the country, enjoying the freedom of the open road. I come across this beautiful woman in a restaurant separating all the things on her plate. I'm intrigued, I come over to talk to her, and before long we're in love. I sign for a quickie marriage license and we tie the knot. No courtship, no asking of family, nothing; we just went out and did it. That was probably the killer; I jumped in without realizing what I was getting into. It was only after we were married that I started seeing the full facets of her personality, and at the time, it seemed rather scary to a young high school dropout a long way from home in PA. She started dictating every aspect of our lives to the T; as a free spirit growing up, that wasn't my style at all. Slowly a bit of resentment started growing. I was genuinely excited when first Ambrose and then Adrian came along--I always did want kids--and I did the best I could with them at the time, but then their tics started coming out, and I started feeling like I was trapped in a fun house. Moreover, writing out school books wasn't exactly the job I really wanted to do, as good as I was at it. I felt like life was smothering me alive, and I needed some air. And so, forty-three years ago, I got in the car and drove off for Chinese food. Adrian's probably filled you in on the rest of what happened after that."

"He did," Dwight nodded solemnly, "And he told me how much his mother ended up a broken woman because of it."

"Yeah, if I'd known she'd end up like that, I would have never would have left," Jack shook his head sadly, "I didn't leave to spite her or my sons, you have to believe me on that. I just wanted to feel what freedom tasted like again, and the problem was I got too much of it and was intoxicated by it so that instead of coming back in a couple of months as I had planned when I left, it took forty long years to reconnect. Plus, I was scared, too. I knew it was likely at least one of them if not all of them wouldn't forgive me for it. I've always been the type to run away from confrontations, so I didn't want to face them down on it. But I never did forget about them. Even after I'd remarried, I'd always be thinking how they were doing, and whenever I passed through San Francisco on the route, no matter the hour or schedule, I'd pull by the old house in Tewksbury and stop for a few minutes, waiting to see if someone would come out, but no one did. In fact, when I came through in 1999 and learned his mother was dead, I even got where she was buried and laid some flowers on her grave. It was least I could do to tell her how sorry I was that I made the last twenty-eight years of her life a living hell. She wasn't a bad woman, she just...she really wasn't the right fit for me in the end. I could have done so much better with a woman who was as much a free spirit as I was."

He sighed again. "Yeah, I deserve a lot of what everyone calls me," he admitted to the producer, "I am a failure in a lot of ways. But I don't want to die a failure. I can't make up for forty lost years, but I do want to do what I can before my time comes, and that includes coming on these trips and being there for them when they need a shoulder. I wish everyone who doesn't like me can see that I have changed, that I'm not the same man that drove away from his moral obligation as a father four decades ago, that now I'm actually being a father for real, and it makes me feel better than I have in years to be able to do it."

"Same here, actually," Turcotte appeared behind them, "I've felt better being full-time with Becky since I quit the Company. My only regret is that I didn't do it sooner; maybe me wife wouldn't have left then."

"Ah, so it was too hard on her living that life?" Jack nodded knowingly.

"Unfortunately yes," Turcotte slid next to him on the bench, "Oh we've at least maintained a cordial relationship, but I just know Becky would have been happier if we'd managed to stay together. Going through a divorce at age nine clearly took a toll on her, and since I was sworn to silence as to what my job really entailed, I couldn't let her know I was working to make sure the country and her livelihood stayed safe. There was a rather ugly period between her eleventh and thirteenth birthdays when she was refusing to speak to me at all, and if I were in her place, I'd probably be thinking the same thing. It was about then that I became more determined to be there for her, so I walked out on a stakeout to get to her thirteenth birthday party. She was impressed, and since then our relationship has slowly healed to somewhere near normalcy; I think, also, finding out what I had really been doing made her understand more the dilemma I'd been going through all those years."

"The truth usually does help, yes," Dwight agreed, "I always tried to be truthful with Trudy. Maybe that's why I had a better rapport with her over the years than the two of you seem to have."

"So then tell me one thing, how come we fathers get total blame for everything that goes wrong with families these days?" Jack had to ask, looking somewhat perturbed, "In our cases they'd have a point," he gestured at Turcotte, "But every time I turn on the TV or go to the movies, the message I get is that everything that goes wrong for families is completely our fault for working too hard or something like that, and that forcing us to change our ways is all it will take to make everything magically better. I know from experience it's not that simple; part of my reason for walking away was that my wife refused to compromise her ways in regards to mine. Maybe she didn't have a choice with her mind operating the way it did, but it would have been nice if she'd made some kind of attempt to figure out what I was thinking about the situation."

"Well, as the clear cut leaders of families, fathers are the most convenient targets if a better explanation can't be found, I suppose," Dwight guessed, "But you do have a point; I've noticed fathers tend to get bashed a lot these days too, much more than they probably should be. I've always believed in fairness and equality in a marriage, and fortunately so does Marsha, and that's why we celebrated our forty-seventh anniversary earlier this year. If I ever got handed that kind of script, I'd have some changes made, because fathers are very important parts of a person's life. It would be a shame if society reaches the point where everyone believes we're better off without them."

"Indeed," Archbishop Fitzwater came walking up behind the bench, "I've made maintaining the family unit a prime message of my diocese's outreach since I was promoted. Too many people today give up on the sacred rite of marriage too soon these days, not caring about the blessings a happy union can give them."

"Indeed, Father," the producer nodded, "Perhaps we can get together and make a project with such a message in mind. The media can be used for so much good that sometimes it can be stupefying how it's often misused for rating these days."

"Oh, Father," Jack rose up, "Would you be willing to take confessions when you're off duty?"

"Someone in my profession should never be off-duty," the archbishop told him, "So I can take whatever you have to ask."

Jack knelt to his knees, "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," he admitted, glancing up at the sky, "I renounced my sacred role in marriage for the wrong reasons forty-three years ago, and caused deep harm to so many others. The repercussions of this act has dogged me for years, and I beg for your forgiveness for this, for the sake of my first wife, wherever she may be now, and to my sons."

"In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, I declare to you the forgiveness of all your sins in God's eyes," Fitzwater took hold of his shoulder, "Arise and be healed."

"Uh, one more thing," the trucker remained kneeling, "If you can do it, Lord, please make sure my son can solve his wife's case within the next year. The pain he and everyone else her life touched have suffered since her death has been too much to bear. Please give us all closure before our time comes, because we all want to share the joy of finding out who killed her and knowing her spirit can finally rest in peace. Amen."

"I promise you he can do what he can to allow that to happen," the archbishop assured him, "Amen. Arise."

Jack rose back up. "You know, I did sort of feel something there," he remarked, "Like something heavy just went out of me."

"Well, speaking of maintaining a good fatherly lifestyle," Turcotte rose up, "I did promise Becky we'd go fishing at some point this week, so might as well get it in now while there's still some spare time."

* * *

"You sure you're feeling all right?" Wendy asked Troy. The children were all clumped together at the edge of the dock, enjoying the fall and winter scenery across the lake. "You've been quiet all week long."

"I'm fine, really I am," Troy said evasively.

"I don't think so," she shook her head, "I know when somebody's hiding something, and something eating you up."

Troy sighed in resignation. "The last thing I said to my father was an angry retort that I could never respect him," he admitted, "We'd been fighting again over where I was going in life; I wanted a quick two year psychiatry degree, and he preferred I take a four year course. It escalated until I was way out of line and told him off. A few hours later, his heart gave out. He went to his grave thinking I didn't love him, and after all those years when I refused to respect him too...coming up here, being reminded of him, it's bringing back memories..."

"So you think it was your fault it happened?" Wendy asked him, "It's not, you know. My aunt died of a heart attack too, and I know these things are just totally random. So don't bring yourself down," she patted him on the shoulder, "I'm sure your father loved you regardless of what you said to him."

"Sure he did," Jared snorted sarcastically, "Parents always say one thing and do another; it's all about them all the time."

"Jared," Benjy turned to face him, looking frustrated, "We know how you feel about Mrs. Fusco showing up, but you're carrying this way too far. I've known your father for eleven years, and he would never have gone behind your back on something like that."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I forgot that you have to be right about everything," Jared glared harshly at him, "After all, you're so damn special in the first place, writing your own television show and getting private lessons with Scott Gregorio and everything."

"You're still jealous of that!?" the younger boy looked shocked, "That was six years ago, Jared, and I needed a..."

"Sure, sure, you get whatever you need, because you're so special with your perfect life and all that," Jared snarled in contempt. He rose up. "Yeah, you're all so special with your Olympic gold medals," he glared Wendy and Julie down, "and your poor innocent orphan statuses," he shot another glare at Troy, "And since I'm nobody but Leland Stottlemeyer's upset son, I have to be wrong about everything. Well you can all go to Hell."

He stormed off the dock in a rage. There came the sputtering of a boat engine as Turcotte pulled up alongside the dock in the cabin's motorboat. "Anyone up for a round of fishing for the next hour or so before we have to catch a train?" he asked them.

"You remembered?" Becky broke into a smile.

"I've said it before, I'm not the man I was all those years ago," he told her.

"I know that, now," she rose up. "Coming along?" she asked her boyfriend.

"No, think I'll stay here a little while longer," Benjy shook his head.

"I'll go," Max crawled into the boat, "It'll relieve the monotony of waiting for that dumb train trip."

"Count me in too," Wendy jumped down into the boat. "Come on, it'll be fun," she prodded Troy.

"Uhh..."

"You want to stay hung up on your father all week? Come on, you'll enjoy it," she pulled him down into the boat. "Anyone else?" Turcotte glanced up the dock, "You?" he looked at Tommy, busy drawing something on a sheet of paper. The youngest boy shook his head. "OK, anchors away," the former CIA agent gunned the engine and pulled out onto the lake. "Just bring her back safely," Benjy called half-jokingly to his likely future father-in-law. "You didn't want to go either?" he asked Julie on the other side of the dock.

"Fishing isn't my thing, really, not anymore," she shook her head. "What are you drawing there?" she asked Tommy, bending over him.

"It's sort of private," he hunched down over it.

"Oh, the lake," she had noticed it anyway, "You draw pretty good, you know. Then again, I'm not surprised; you were fairly good when Mr. Monk adopted you for a little while."

"I don't know why he's making such a big deal over me being here and all that," Tommy shook his head, looking frustrated, "As I've said before, I don't remember the guy at all, and he looks like too much of a weirdo to be capable of doing the things you say he did with me."

"You don't remember anything at all?" she asked him, "How about when you spilled the grape juice on the floor and then cleaned it up all by yourself?"

"No," he shook his head firmly, "Is that supposed to mean something in the first place?"

"Well, my Mom had just been hired by him not long before that, and the time you were living with him was the first time I saw Mr. Monk really, really happy," Julie told him, "You brought out something good in him. Over the last five years, he's talked so warmly about you, about how much he'd give anything to be able to see you again...he didn't mean that in a creepy way," she added quickly, noticing Tommy starting to freak out again, "It was the hardest thing I've ever seen him do to give you up to that other family."

"I just wish they were still here," Tommy grumbled, "I liked them so much better."

"You know Tommy, when we were in Philadelphia a few years ago, we came across a boy who felt the same way about his father," she leaned closer to him, "I'm going to tell you what I told him then: you're not really giving Mr. Christie a chance. He doesn't really want to be your father, just your friend. He respects what you felt towards them, and he doesn't want to take their place. You'd be making a big mistake to push him aside."

Tommy sighed. "I don't know, I really don't," he mumbled, "The last few months have just been a nightmare, and these last few days haven't helped. Tell me, does Monk really attract death everywhere he goes?"

"Well, I suppose you could...but it's not really a fair..."

"I knew it," the younger boy snapped his fingers, "He is out there, then."

"Well..."

"I've heard enough; I'd much rather finish this," Tommy turned back to his drawing. Julie gave Benjy an "I tried" shrug. "So, is college what you thought it would be like?" she asked.

"It does take some getting used to at first," he admitted, "I think I'll be adjusted by Christmas, though. At least for the most part. But I can't get over how I'm part of the real world now. It seems like I was still just eleven a few days ago."

"I know," she agreed, "Time goes by so quickly anymore. And I'm not sure if I'm really ready for the world yet. Maybe I'm just trying to hold on to childhood longer than I need to, but being on my own out there does worry me a little, knowing that soon I'll have to start paying bills and taxes and all that. Too bad we can't be born old and grow younger with age, huh?"

"That would be nice if it worked that way," Benjy chuckled at the thought, "Yeah, it feels pretty heavy knowing I'm going to have to take care of my mom from now on. I'm not complaining--she deserves anything I can get for her--but I don't know if I can handle everything that she'll need, at least not at the moment. Maybe when Becky's film takes off, if it takes off, we'll have enough money for me to feel more comfortable about it."

"Funny enough, though, you'd switch to wanting to do features at her first suggestion," Julie had to ask, "You seem to be enjoying TV a lot."

Benjy sighed. "Becky really wanted to try her hand at films. It's only fair that I give her an equal say; a relationship is supposed to be fair and equal, after all."

"So basically you don't want to fight with her over anything," she said.

"I've had to live through one terrible relationship; I don't want anything to go wrong with what she and I have," he confessed, "If we do have kids, I want them to have as stable and happy a place to grow up in as possible. And if that means giving up what I want, so be it. Although, when it comes to kids, Becky really wants to have them right after we get married; I don't know if I really want to jump into it that soon; don't know if I'm ready just yet."

"In other words, you're scared that you'll end up like your father, that his shortcomings as a parent ended up in you through some genetic flaw," Julie surmised, "I don't think you'll have to worry about that; you're not like him at all in that regard. You'll be a great father in your own right, trust me."

She picked up a stone on the edge of a dock and tossed it onto the glistening lake, where it skipped three times before sinking. "I don't know if I want kids just yet," she conceded, "I know it's a pretty big responsibility, and I don't want to take the jump until I'm sure I'm ready. Besides, my mom would kill me if I was pregnant too soon. I think I need to be about thirty for her to feel comfortable. In the meantime, I think I'd like the names David or Tasha for the first one; I just happen to like the names."

"By the way, why couldn't your boyfriend make it here this week?" Benjy asked, "I was kind of looking forward to meeting him."

"Well, to be honest, Tim and I have sort of been drifting apart lately," she admitted solemnly, "He's going to college out of state, and he's planning on going into a different field than I'm interested in, so I'm sorry to say he probably wasn't Trudy, to coin a phrase. Sorry to disappoint you."

"No matter," he shrugged, "Maybe I'll catch him on Facebook or something. Um, listen, in case we don't get to see each other in person again after this week, I'd just like to say that I'm glad we ended up friends. I used to think that girls wouldn't be interesting enough to be casual friends with, but I'm glad you proved me wrong about that. So you can say Mr. Monk made both our lives better by making sure we met."

"I guess you could say that. And I'm glad we got to know each other too," she shook his hand, "Let's just hope," she stared hopefully out across the lake, "That we can make the world better for our children than our parents left it for us. I guess that's all you can hope for in life, really."

* * *

"There, that should do it," Christie proclaimed some time later, lifting the ax out of the last block of wood Disher had set before him on the chopping block.

"Yep, that's more than enough," Stottlemeyer agreed, "Here, Monk, you love stacking things evenly; make sure they're in nice even piles, since I know you won't be able to accept them any other way."

"Thank you, Captain; I'm glad you respect my judgment like that; here, Randy," Adrian handed the lieutenant all his bags of wood chips and sawdust and started stacking the firewood in even piles of ten each. It was then that he noticed the Davenports coming out of the woods to his right. "Well, you two certainly are early risers," he rose up, "Up all last night and still able enough to take a nice long walk all morning, Dr. Bell here told me."

"For your information, Mr. Monk, Peg and I went to the bus station in town to check their schedules," Bobby frowned at him darkly, "We're thinking of leaving early..."

"I'm afraid you can't do that, Mr. D," Stottlemeyer folded his arms across his chest and shook his head, "The two of you are as much suspects in everything that's been going on here, so no one's leaving until this is all settled."

"You can't hold us prisoners!" Peggy demanded at him, "You're violating our constitutional rights if you force us to stay here against our will!"

"Well technically not," Disher pointed out, "In a lock down, the suspects are required..."

"Don't give me any of that procedural crap!" Bobby snapped in the lieutenant's face, "You know we're innocent, genius, and...!"

"Are you!?" came Natalie's upset voice from the path leading from the cabin. She approached her parents with a grim expression. "Jonathan told me about your little trip to San Quentin. Did you meet with Dale Beiderbeck!?"

"We don't have to explain ourselves to you," her mother growled.

"You owe me the truth as your daughter!" she shouted at her.

"I thought we had more trust than that, young lady!" Bobby barked, "You know we're innocent of this whole affair!"

"Are you!?"

"Natalie Jane Davenport, you watch your tongue with us!" Peggy bellowed at her, "You say we owe you the truth; I say you owe us respect as your parents! So just back off us, or I swear Mitch's picture will go right back into the closet where I still say it belongs!"

"Um, am I interrupting something here?" Dwight leaned from behind a hemlock, looking puzzled.

"Yes, everything's in order; we were just about to take our leave of this lake, because we can't stand it here anymore," Bobby told him firmly.

"Sorry; if what Adrian said last night is right is true, you could be as much of suspects as anyone in these terrorist acts," Dwight glanced at Stottlemeyer, who nodded.

"I can't believe this!" the toothpaste magnate ranted angrily, "This is turning into a madhouse! And my wife's right; it IS all your fault!" he shoved an accusing finger in Adrian's face. He and Peggy shoved past Dwight and stormed back to the cabin. "OK, uh, well," the producer tried to get his composure back after the outburst, "Anyway, it's about time to get going if we want to catch that train."

"They did check it already?" Dr. Bell asked.

"I made sure security checked it from locomotive to caboose twice," Dwight nodded, "I don't want anything else to go wrong with this at all, so let's hope for the best with this."


	14. Mr Monk's Train Ride from Hell

"Wow. Now THAT'S a train," Jack Jr. exclaimed. Adrian had to agree; sitting before them on the tracks at the train station was a wonderfully restored wood-burning Southern Pacific steam engine. "The _David R. Hoberman_," he mused, reading the ornate bronze nametag on the side of the boiler.

"Built 1908, Mikado Class, named for Collis P. Huntington's junior assistant chief financial officer during his tenure as sole chairman of the Southern Pacific," Ambrose rattled off the rough facts, "Served forty-three years on the line running from Sacramento up through to Portland, including through Breckman Lake. Mustered out of service in 1951, sat in storage for twenty-six years before being restored to its current condition and put to use for seasonal excursions through Shasta County."

"Well, it appears you are the smarter brother after all, Ambrose," Atherton stepped out of the lines of National Guard troops flanking the walkway toward the loading platform, applauding.

"Well, uh, it's a blessing, and a curse," Ambrose shuffled about uncomfortably as other bystanders behind the troops who'd overheard them also broke into applause; Adrian could tell his brother was eager to just get on board and have a roof over his head again.

"I'd say just a blessing, really," the professor slapped him on the back, "Well, little else to say except all aboard, everyone."

"And you're absolutely certain you found nothing dangerous on board?" Jack Sr. raised his hand.

"Had the bomb squad go through it twice with metal detectors and bomb-sniffing dogs; nothing to worry about at all," Atherton assured him.

"Still," Natalie spoke up, her face wrought with unease, "I'd like to make a quick check of my own, just to make sure; a mother's intuition, you might say."

"She's got a point," Stottlemeyer was nodding as well, "I'd feel a lot more comfortable after checking it over myself too. Randy, you and I start at the engine and work backwards; Natalie, you start at the caboose and go forward; we'll meet in the middle."

The three of them split off. Adrian caught a glimpse of Karen in the window of the first car behind the one they were going to board, filming the crowds. "So you brought Karen on board for this as well?" he asked Atherton as he saw the director disappear from view, apparently satisfied with whatever footage she had.

"Well, she's still got a few more interviews to handle with you, and besides, this was the big event of the week," the professor told him, "Actually, I'd probably better have a word with her about the best way to shoot the mock mystery we'll be staging. Jared," he turned to his pupil, "Care to come with me on that? You haven't seen her all week, I don't think."

"I'd be glad to go," Jared shot yet another disapproving glance at Adrian before walking through the metal detector set up in front of the stairs and joined Atherton in climbing on board. Adrian wanted to have a word with Karen himself, preferably alone, once the excursion began. He walked through the metal detector himself, jumping wildly to the side as another guard tried to wave him down with a portable detector. "I'm, I'm fine, really," he told the man, "You, you don't really think I'd bring anything on board, would you?"

"Just checking to make sure, Mr. Monk," the conductor, dressed to the nines like an old-time railroadman, helped him on board, "Welcome aboard the Monkient Express, so to speak."

"Amusing," Adrian reached back out the door to wipe a small patch of grime off the exterior of the car, then turned left into the car. He was admittedly impressed at the interior, which had been restored to turn of the century passenger train opulence, with luxury seats (with ample leg room too) and a snack table. "Wonderful," Jack Jr. had noticed the latter. He made a beeline for it, but his father rushed forward and stepped in his path. "Not until we're actually moving!" he upbraided his youngest child, "And you'd better share with others!"

"Boy, you're no fun to be around," Jack Jr. grumbled, plopping into a seat on the starboard side with his arms folded gruffly across his chest. "Very nice indeed," Jack Sr. took in the train himself. "How far are we going on this again?" he asked the conductor.

"An hour round trip, twenty-five miles out and back to the north," the conductor told him, "We've got a spare locomotive pointing southwards at the Zisk Junction station; once we reach that, we'll disconnect the caboose and replace it with that engine for the return run."

"Sounds good," Adrian was glancing out the car's rear window. Jerry the cameraman was watching footage on a portable television set up on a table in the baggage car behind them. There was no sign of Karen, meaning the detective had a window to work with to accomplish what was on his mind. "I'm, uh, I'm going to take a walk around the train, just to, you know, make sure everything's in order myself," he told the rest of his party, still streaming aboard, "I'll, uh, be back in no time."

He pushed open the door to the baggage car, stealing a look back to make sure no one was going to follow him. Seeing no one was, he strolled over to Jerry. "Excuse me," he tapped Jerry on the shoulder, making the cameraman jump. "Oh, it's just you, Monk," he breathed, still looking nervous, however, "What can...?"

"I would like to see some of the footage you've shot for the documentary," the detective told him. Jerry visibly gulped. "Uh, well, Monk, um, Karen told me she wanted to surprise you with..." he tried to explain.

"Jerry," Adrian gestured with his palm at several numbered tapes stacked next to the video deck, "I have to know what kind of documentary she's making."

Looking deathly nervous, Jerry reluctantly handed him the stack of videotapes. Adrian wiped all of them down and pressed Play on the tape already in the video deck. The first glimpse of footage was of he himself walking towards the bumper cars from earlier in the week, with booths selling merchandise based on the show visible in all directions. "After six years on television, Adrian Monk has become a cultural force unto himself, an American institution seemingly without bounds," came Karen's voiceover, "Here at Breckman Lake, where his late wife Trudy--whom Monk has obsessed to an almost unhealthy level about since the day she died--once vacationed as a child, America's favorite defective detective gets to soak in the success his program has created. Which then begs the inevitable question: has success changed Adrian Monk? Has he fallen victim to Lord Acton's dictum on the corruption of power? And is it true that death and despair follow everywhere he goes? This film will take a look into the often contradictory, sometimes frightening world of Adrian Monk, showing how he can make so much good out of so much misery in our world--or does he?"

The title popped up to the strains of a dramatic music sting: ADRIAN MONK: THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS WHO STEPPED INTO THE SPOTLIGHT. Adrian frowned; something wasn't quite right, as he had surmised. He stoped Tape #1 and ejected it, then inserted Tape #2 and played it. He almost jumped backwards to see a smug-looking Patrick Kloster on the screen, leaning towards a microphone stuck through the bars of his cell in San Quentin. "...don't know it yet," he was cheerfully telling Karen on the tape while moving his left white bishop to E-5 on his chess board, "but the fact is quite clear that Adrian Monk willfully broke into my house to plant evidence on me. He was so desperate to have me convicted that he was willing to overstep his bounds to do it."

"Well, the trial did in fact prove you were guilty of killing both your wives, Mr. Kloster," Karen reminded him from off-camera, "So you can't really call it a frame-up. However, would you characterize Adrian Monk's actions that night when you caught him breaking into your house as typical of someone in his state of mind?"

"Oh I wouldn't be surprised at all," a slick smile crossed Kloster's face as he captured the white bishop with his black queen, "We all know Adrian Monk has to have a perfect arrest record apart from his wife's murder; he has the mindset of someone bent on doing anything to keep that record intact. Ask around to everyone else in here; they would tell you Monk pursued them with reckless abandonment, and may have crossed the line in the end to get them if they hadn't made mistakes that led him right to them before he'd have reached that point."

The camera panned down the cell block. Adrian hit the Pause button, noticing with wide eyes that Dale was right next to Kloster, eagerly listening in on the whole interview with his neighbor. Which confirmed that Karen had the opportunity to contact Dale. In fact, the next piece of footage only confirmed this, for Dale had been Karen's next interviewee that day. "Everyone wants to make poor me out as the bad guy because they see me as a freak of nature," he was saying, grinning like the cat that had swallowed the canary, "They don't want to know that Trudy Monk genuinely libeled me, and by standing by her, Adrian Monk is guilty of accessory to libel, among a likely litany of other things. I never actively harmed either of them outside of the courtroom--a situation, you must understand, they brought wholly on themselves by thinking they could topple me. In truth, Trudy Monk was a rogue journalist, operating well outside of the bounds of journalist mores, just like her husband is prone to do when he doesn't have an easy conviction, as my good neighbor Patrick just told you."

"Then how do you explain your proven attempt to frame Monk for murder, Mr. Beiderbeck? Sheriff Rollins swore before the court that you concocted the entire plan to have Monk disgraced and imprisoned in your place."

"My participation in that plot was blown WAY out of proportion, Mrs. Marshall," Dale almost laughed as he lied, "It was primarily former Sheriff Rollins's idea, something your clever little newspapers don't tell you because they're all on Monk's side."

"So you're willing to stand by that statement?"

"Search your feelings, Mrs. Marshall; what do you think the truth is!?" Dale almost dared her. The footage cut off at this point. Frowning, Adrian jammed Tape #3 into the machine. Being interviewed next was one of Trudy's dormitory mates from college that he had forgotten about for years. "...once he met her, he couldn't leave her alone," she was saying ditzily, "He followed her everywhere she went, day and night."

"So you're saying he stalked Trudy, essentially?" Karen asked her subject.

"I would say it bordered on obssession, yes."

Adrian ejected the tape, not caring to hear any more of this conversation. Tape #4 showed, to his surprise, a teary-eyed Leyla. "I begged and pleaded with him not to arrest her," she was sobbing to her interviewer, "All she did was free us and all Zemenians from that hideous monster!"

"And he turned you down flat?"

"He showed making the arrest meant more to him than any feelings for me," Leyla's face contorted with rage, "He said he couldn't if he valued his chance for reinstatement."

Strangely, the last sentence sounded awkward, as if each word had been assembled from separate sources. At the moment, this did not surprise Adrian that much, however. "I trusted him, and he ripped my mother apart from me!" Leyla was roaring furiously at the camera, "I hope he's happy with his dead wife, because a dead woman's the only woman he deserves!"

Again the sentence seemed cobbled together. Tape #5, once Adrian inserted it, showed graphic footage of the previous night's explosions. "Dozens of Adrian Monk's loyal fans, broken, bleeding, disillusioned, even dead," Karen laconically described the ugly scenes, "Brought to the brink of death, and in some cases over it, while worshipping the man they saw as the way, the truth, and the light."

Abruptly the door at the other end of the baggage car slammed open. "What do you think you're doing in here!?" Karen snapped at him.

"Actually, Karen, I could ask you the same question," Adrian turned towards her, glaring, "What kind of film do you think you're making here!? Not a single bit of what I've seen on these tapes is accurate. This is not the film Tim asked you to make."

"Well, Tim isn't here anymore, so I can make whatever film I want to. And you!" she rounded on Jerry, "I told you not to let him see any of this!"

"He insisted; I really didn't have a choice!" the cameraman protested.

"And I'm glad I did insist," Adrian spoke up, advancing towards the captain's former wife, "Because I happened to notice you meeting with Dale Beiderbeck--who, I hope you'll care to know, told nothing but lies to you going by the footage I did see. Dale happens to be the prime suspect in everything that's been going on this week. You wouldn't have happened to have had any additional conversations with him when you interviewed him that aren't related to this documentary, did you, Karen!?"

"Get out!" she jerked a finger towards the door back to his compartment.

"Not until I get an answer," he shook his head firmly, "Did you or did you not sell out to Dale Beiderbeck to kill me? And if you did, why?"

"I SAID GET OUT!!!" she seized him by the arm and flung him roughly through the door back to the passenger coach. Adrian smacked hard into the coach's door, which flew open and sent him sprawling to the floor. He looked up to see everyone staring at him, puzzled. "Oh, uh, just, just tripped," he said hastily, hoping no one had heard the shouting between them, "Lots of, lots of loose luggage around in there."

"Well, just be more careful, then," Dwight helped him up. Adrian felt his father-in-law should have to know about what he now knew. "Um," he whispered softly in the producer's ear after checking that no one was watching, "You should probably know that..."

He told Dwight everything he'd seen in the baggage car. "I don't believe it," Dwight mumbled under his breath, shaking his head in disgust, "I told Tim she couldn't be trusted to do an unbiased documentary given what's happened between you. Don't worry, Adrian, I'm going to settle this all right now."

He stormed back into the baggage car. Adrian glanced around. "Hey, hey!" he shouted at Harold, fooling around with the glass soda bottles on the snack table. He flew over and grabbed them out of his nemesis's hands. "Like THIS!!" he yelled, plopping them back down in six rows of two, "That's the most even way!"

"No, this is!" Harold rearranged them into three rows of four.

"Not with an odd number of rows!" Adrian switched them back to his preferred arrangement. Growling, Harold returned them to his arrangement. Adrian grabbed for them again, only for Harold to seize him by the wrist and try to pull the three bottles he was holding away from him. The detective tugged back as hard as he could, until the bottles suddenly slipped from both their grasps and shattered on the floor. "NOW LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!!" both OCD patients roared at each other simultaneously.

"Is there a problem in here!?" Stottlemeyer and Disher came in through the door at the front of the car, their eyebrows raised at the disturbance.

"Adrian's the problem; look at what he did!" Harold gestured wildly at the glass shards on the floor, "Now we'll have to take this trip with an odd number of sodas!"

"Not necessarily, Harold; I can fix that for both of us. Here, hold this," Adrian handed Harold a plastic bag.

"What's this supposed to...?" Harold got his answer as the detective took one of the remaining soda bottles off the table and smashed it over the former councilman's head, shattering it as well. "There, now there's an even number again," he told his rival with a triumphant grin as Harold staggered around clutching his temple, "You can pick up the pieces yourself."

"Adrian..." Dr. Bell scowled disapprovingly at him.

"He brought it on himself," the detective rationalized. "Anything?" he asked the captain and lieutenant.

"Nothing suspicious we could see," Disher shook his head with relief, "No explosives planted outside or inside, so this trip should be smooth sailing then. What's going on back there?"

Even from where he was standing at the front of the car, Adrian could hear the angry shouting between Dwight and Karen in the baggage car. This was momentarily amplified when Natalie came in through the back door, looking troubled by what she'd clearly seen with her own eyes going on in there. Adrian hastily raised his finger when she started to say something, gestured at Stottlemeyer, and put his finger to his lips. "You, you see anything suspicious, Natalie?" he asked her quickly.

"No; I'd say we're good," she said just as quickly, clearly not wanting to have to tell the captain what she'd witnessed either, "So we should commend Dr. Atherton on making those extra arrangements for added security. Where did he go, anyway?"

"He, uh, wanted to make some last minute arrangements for the documentary," Adrian explained, "Ah, Professor," it was at that moment that Atherton and Jared did walk back into the coach, both frowning; obviously they had been witnesses to the argument in the car behind them as well, "I, uh, hope everything's in order with what we'll be filming."

"I should hope so," Atherton snorted, "That is an expensive film we're shooting; it would be a shame for it not to be completed."

His eyes were like daggers aimed right at Adrian; apparently he had surmised the detective had incited Karen somehow. Jared's glance was, not all that surprisingly, even more piercing. He brushed wordlessly past the detective into the front-most left window seat and stared angrily out it.

"Up here folks, nice and easy," the conductor was now helping a trio of people on board the train. "Everyone, meet the grand prize winners for the Monkstock contest who won the trip with you all; first, this is Chris from Wilkes-Barre..."

"So, we meet again, Monk," the detective's first interviewee from the previous day gave him a vigorous hand pumping, then handed him a wipe out of his own pocket, "I've been watching since Day One, and this is clearly the crowning achievement as your number one fan."

"No, I'M his number one fan!" the middle-aged woman next to him shouted at him. "Hello, Adrian Monk, this is an honor of a lifetime; I'd shake, but I know how you feel about it; Sharon Lowery's the name, I'm from Fargo, and if you'd ever be willing to let go of Trudy, I'd be glad to marry you."

She said all this very fast. Adrian had to wonder if there were any truly normal fans at Monkstock, or if it had merely attracted the eccentric viewers. "Actually, I'm his number one fan, you little twit!" hissed the third member of the party, an elderly man with a walker. "It is a pleasure, Monk," he rubbed the detective's hair before Adrian could stop him, making him wipe frantically at it in case his hair was now tarnished, "I'm Elmo Korman, from Pensacola, and you've made Friday nights worthwhile again."

"And we're proud to have all of you here as well," Atherton rose back up to shake all their hands, "On behalf of the Walt Disney Company and Trudy's Song Productions (Dwight's own company, appropriately renamed after her death at Adrian's personal suggestion, the detective remembered fondly), I'd like to congratulate you on winning the contest. If you'll take your seats now, we can start this train ride. After a few minutes, a murder will take place somewhere on the train, and if any of you three can solve it before Monk here can, you'll win a fabulous array of prizes..."

"Including a lifetime supply of chocolate," Jack Jr. cracked from his seat. Everyone else glared at him as the train's whistle rang out. "All aboard!" the conductor shouted out the door towards the engine, picking up the step and tossing it on board before slamming the door shut. The contestants hustled for their seats. "Good to see you were able to show up," Elmo commended Sharona as he plopped down behind her, "It just hasn't been the same without whatever-her-name-is; she can't hold a candle to you at all."

Adrian saw Natalie glare at the old man. He had a grim feeling the assistant rivalry among the fans would continue till the end of time no matter what he'd say to dissuade them. The whistle gave a second shriek, followed by the bell ringing repeatedly. Adrian gripped the armrests hard as the train suddenly jolted backwards a few feet before chugging forward to loud cheers from the crowd still on the platform. Soon they had vanished from sight, and the woods had closed around the train as it gradually built up steam. The detective leaned back in his chair and tried to enjoy the beautiful autumnal countryside streaming leisurely past the window, the stillness broken only by Harold's manic whimpers from the floor by the snack table as he endeavored to mop up the soda stains from the floor, to no effect. Adrian felt no sympathy for his rival; Harold had brought this predicament on himself by refusing to leave well enough alone, regardless of whatever Dr. Bell said.

The next few minutes of the train ride passed without incident. They were well into the woods and chugging along briskly when the back door to the car opened. Looking somewhat frazzled, Dwight walked over and leaned close to the detective's ear. "Just want you to know, it's all taken care of," he whispered softly to his son-in-law, "She refused to change what she'd shot and recorded, so I fired her. I'll have the cameraman shoot this anyway, then I'll call up a replacement director overnight to re-edit her footage into something without any bias."

"That, that would be nice, thank you," Adrian whispered back. Then he remembered what else had been bothering him about the footage he'd seen--Karen's interview with Dale. "Uh, not to sound like a chronic worrier, but you didn't happen to actually see her get off the train before it left after you fired her?" he asked softly.

"Well, she stormed towards the back of the train after she snapped that I wasn't firing her, that she was quitting instead," Dwight related, "No, I didn't actually see her get off, but I assumed that was what she was doing. Why? Are you saying you think _she_ might be the...?"

Before he could finish, a loud scream rang out in the car ahead of them. The door swung open, and a large woman in period clothing from the Roaring 20s barrelled into the compartment. "Dead!!" she screamed, grabbing the conductor by the lapels, "He's dead in the bathroom!"

"Who?" the conductor played along with the script as best he could.

"My husband; he took too long coming back, and I found him in there!" she shrieked in his face.

"Uh oh, looks like there's a mystery afoot!" Atherton announced excitedly to the contest winners, waving them to their feet, "Let's go take a look and see...!"

"She did it," Adrian pointed at the woman.

"Huh?" the professor frowned.

"She murdered him," the detective explained, almost bored, "He was cheating, and she wanted to teach him a lesson without drawing attention to herself, so she poisoned his coffee, giving a precise dosage so he wouldn't go into convulsions until he reached the bathroom. You had a harpoon hidden in the storage closet next to the bathroom; you followed him there and waited until you heard him collapse to the floor, dead, then you checked to make sure you were alone, went in, slashed at his arms several times to make it look like there'd been a struggle in the bathroom, then ran him through the chest with it, hoping to blame the drunken sailor in the first coach. Then you wiped your fingerprints off it with your handkerchief--which, by the way, using to wipe away your fake tears is the perfect way to make sure the police don't examine it--locked the door, and started screaming. After all, who would look for poison in the stomach of a man that was apparently impaled? Was that the best murder you could come up with, Professor?" he asked Atherton with more than a little impatience.

"Um..." stunned, Atherton pulled out a script and scanned through each page, "Uh, well, I don't know what to say, Monk, except that has to be some kind of record. Um, what do we do now?" he asked Dwight, "This was supposed to take a good half hour to go through; I don't really know...?"

"Uh," the producer looked rather surprised himself that Adrian had figured it out so quickly, "Well, um, if you'll give us about twenty minutes, maybe we could come up with a replacement mystery that would be easier to..."

"What's going on!?" two more actors in Victorian era costumes stuck their head in through the door. "Why aren't you guys coming back here yet?" the taller one inquired, looking upset, as if he were on a tight schedule for whatever reason.

"It's over already," the woman sighed, clearly disgusted she couldn't act out the rest of the murder, "Monk figured the whole thing out without even bothering to see the crime scene!"

"Now what, Ellison!?" the shorter man demanded to the producer, "And you'd better still pay us for all this, or...!"

Abruptly, the train made a hard lurch, shaking everyone up, before returning to normal. "What was that!?" Disher glanced out the windows, looking a little worried.

"Probably just a rough section of track or something," Dr. Bell shrugged, "Happens every now and then when I take the transit system in San Francisco."

"Well, if it was just a rough section of track, why did our speed just increase fifteen miles an hour in the last ten seconds?" Ambrose looked worried himself. Adrian focused his gaze on the trees passing on the starboard side and counted down the seconds in his head. And sure enough, they started whipping by faster and faster with each second. "Uh oh," he mumbled numbly, "I think the brakes are dead."

Everyone around him gasped. "That's impossible," Atherton looked pale, "I checked the entire brake line myself before you showed up; it was completely intact and undamaged!"

No sooner were the words out of his mouth when there came a tremendous and unmistakable explosion from the direction of the locomotive. Horror-struck, Adrian leaned towards the window to see the engine was on fire, meaning that there likely was no one at the throttle anymore. They were aboard a runaway. "You, tell us," he rounded on the conductor, "Are there any trains on this line heading south right now!?"

"I, I don't think so," the conductor babbled in terror, "I'll go call up the line to make sure, though."

"You do that, and then call every station up the line and see if they can come up with anything to stop us that doesn't involve derailing us. We'll get to the engine and see if we can do anything to stop this train ourselves," Stottlemeyer started rushing to the front of the car, "Monk, Randy, Joe, come with me; the rest of you, get to the nearest door and get ready to jump if we have to."

"I'd better come too, for reference," Ambrose raised his hand, "I know the layout of a Mikado-class locomotive to the T."

"Ambrose, I'd rather you not..." his father tried to talk him out of it.

"Got to do it, Dad; when there's lives at stake, got to step up to the plate," his oldest son told him firmly, "You just get off this train safely if we can't do it in the end."

He ran after the others up the train. Adrian froze up as they exited the last regular car, realizing that they'd have to climb over the exposed tender--the wood in which was burning from the explosion anyway--to get to the engine. "Uh, maybe, maybe if we just uncoupled the engine, that would let us slow down once we're not being pulled forward anymore," he proposed.

"Certainly worth a try, Monk; safest option too," Stottlemeyer agreed. He reached down and yanked hard at the coupler lever. "Damn, jammed!" he shouted, pulling for all it was worth. The tender, however, remained firmly attached to the rest of the train. "Ah, the hell with it!" he growled, "Let's see what's the engine looks like, then!"

He climbed up the tender, kicking burning cords of wood over the sides to clear a path. Adrian dug out his wipes and tried placing them on the tender's rungs, but the wind blew them all off. Sighing, he reluctantly gripped hold of the handles and maneuvered his way up and through the sea of wood.

His first sight of the engine wasn't a positive one at all; the entire right side of the locomotive had been blown out by the explosion, clearly having taken the engineer with it. The boiler was completely on fire, and additional flames were dancing out of the open firebox. Coughing, Stottlemeyer tried to stamp them out. "OK, you're the expert, which one's the brake!?" he demanded to Ambrose as the instruction manual writer hopped into the cab.

"Should be right about...there," Ambrose pointed to the topmost valve on the right. The captain grabbed it and yanked it, but it merely jerked to the left without any resistance at all, confirming for Adrian that the brakes were completely dead. "OK, is there an emergency brake of some kind in case this one goes dead!?" Stottlemeyer demanded to the instruction manual writer.

"It is Southern Pacific guidelines to have a backup brake these days...looks like it's this one," Ambrose pointed at a similar looking valve below the main brake, "Don't expect too much if the main's disabled, though; I'd bet that one got tampered with too."

The emergency brake did in fact activate when Stottlemeyer pulled it, but it seemed to be only barely catching, as if whoever had tampered with it was mocking them by reducing it to absolute minimal effectiveness, Adrian thought. He glanced at the odometer through the smoke. They were now going a hundred and fifteen miles an hour and rising, likely above the threshold that brakes could stop it in an emergency anyway. "Well, now what!?" the captain was looking increasingly nervous at their predicament.

"Each car might have an individual, independent break," Adrian told him, "That won't stop us, but it could slow us up enough to keep from being completely out of control."

"Joe, you go see if you can find and set those brakes," Stottlemeyer ordered Christie, "And see if the conductor got through to anyone up the line!"

"Actually, see if he can get them to throw up a red light in front of us," Ambrose suggested, "Railroad central control automatically slams on the brakes for any train that runs a red light."

"Right," Christie climbed back over the tender. "Actually, we should make the call as well," Disher glanced around the cab, "Where the radio?"

"I think it was here," Adrian gestured at some sparking wires right next to where the engineer would have been sitting. "Actually, Captain, we could also turn off the throttle and pull the reverse lever; that should manage to..."

Something up the track caught his attention; they were approaching a switch, and he couldn't help noticing the alignment they were on. "And we'd better try that really fast, because it looks like someone took the time to shift us off the main line," he mumbled, pointing at the switch, with its red "switched" side facing them rather than the green "normal" setting.

"So you're saying, we're going who knows where now!?" Disher mumbled as the train rocketed off the main line and onto the side track, lurching dangerously to the side as it struggled to stay on the rails at high speed.

"There's one way to find out; the blast didn't get the track map," Stottlemeyer pointed at the map lying open on the floor in the corner of the cab, only slightly burned, "See where this leads. Which is the reverse lever!?" he demanded to Ambrose.

"The long vertical one right next to the window," Ambrose pointed at it, "That's the throttle over your head there."

Stottlemeyer strained with the reverse lever, finally managing to pull it back into the full reverse position. He seized the throttle and struggled to push it in as well as the wheels started spinning in the opposite directions underneath them. "Think I'm getting it," he grimaced, jerking in inwards.

"Uh, well, let's hope so, Captain, because I don't think you want to know where this track ends at," Disher sounded gravely worried. Adrian's heart froze at what this likely entailed. He glanced over the lieutenant's shoulder at the map. The line they were on had the words OUT OF SERVICE written alongside it in black letters. What was most troublesome, though, was the fact that the line abruptly was broken crossing a river not far from where they were now. "Bridge is out," he whispered loudly. He glanced back at the map to ascertain its scale distances, then back up at the odometer, now up to a hundred and forty miles an hour. "We'll reach the end of the track in four and a half miles," he reasoned, "Which, at our current speed, should be in a little over two and a half minutes."

"Oh my God," Stottlemeyer turned pale at what their intended fate was. "Lieutenant, get back there and tell everyone to jump, now!" he ordered Disher, "I'm personally giving you responsibility for my kids' safety; I want them off and in one piece; go!"

Disher hastily scrambled back over the tender. "You two, jump now!" the captain ordered the Monk brothers, gesturing for them to dive through the hole in the side of the cab. Then his expression changed, and he grabbed Adrian's arm as he hesitantly approached the edge. "Actually, Monk, I'll still need you," he said, "I hate how Karen's been acting the last few months, but I still owe it to her to make sure she doesn't get killed on my watch. Go back and find her, and get her off no matter what she says."

"IF she's still on," Adrian reminded him, "What about you!?"

"I'm going to work that coupler again," Stottlemeyer dragged the detective back over the tender, "Don't worry about me, Monk; just do your duty!"

"And what if the coupler's still intact by the time we hit the bridge!?" Ambrose had to shout to be heard over the whistle of the wind and the scream of the locomotive's runaway engines.

"I'll jump off before the edge; I promise! Now you get off this train and save yourself!" the captain shouted at him.

"You heard him Ambrose, go!" Adrian commanded him. Ambrose took a deep breath and dove into some bushes. Adrian slid past the captain down the tender and back into the first car, grabbing at the door frame as the train roared around a steep curve, leaning dangerously far off the tracks. It was possible, he knew, that they could derail before they even reached the bridge at the speeds they were currently running at, so if Karen was in fact still on board, he prayed he could find her immediately, and that she wouldn't respond to seeing him with a gun in his face. "Jump, jump now!" he screamed at the rest of his party at the door they'd boarded through not more than ten minutes ago as he raced past them.

"We are jumping, Monk; I've got it under control!" Disher told him, and indeed about half of them had already escaped the train, and the detective could see them picking themselves off the ground alongside the tracks. "Good, make sure they're all off in about a minute and a half!" he told the lieutenant, "That's how much time we've got left!"

"Where are you going then!?" Natalie screamed at him as he threw open the door to the baggage car and stepped into it.

"Special assignment, Natalie; just get off and don't worry about me; I'll join you when I'm done, I promise!" he shouted back at her. "Karen!" he shouted around the baggage car, running quickly towards the far end. Jerry had apparently jumped already, having left his equipment behind, still all turned on. Half of it clattered towards Adrian as the train shot around another sharp curve, coming about as close to going off the rails as was possible without actually doing so. "Karen, are you still in here!!??" he shouted again, throwing open the door to the last passenger car on the train. There was no sign of Karen at all, and he doubted she was back in the caboose, or else the conductor would have seen her and notified them somehow, he reasoned, so apparently she had gotten off at some point--but exactly when? That was, however, a moot point to consider at the moment, particularly given the large red sign alongside the track reading DANGER: TRACK ENDS 1 MILE that flashed by the window just then. His job was done. Now it was time for him to get off as well. He turned to head back to where everyone else was escaping...

...but was suddenly lifted off his feet and thrown across the car as a tremendous explosion rocked the caboose, the blast jackknifing Adrian's car sideways on the tracks from the powerful force. Before he could get up, he was blown backwards as a second blast tore through the car in front of him. There came shrieks of steel giving way as the train slipped halfway off the tracks in front of him. Glancing ahead, Adrian saw his car was starting to snap loose at the coupler, and to the left was a steep embankment--so steep he knew he'd be crushed under the car if he went down it. He desperately stumbled back towards the baggage car and swan-dove over the gap to safety just moments before the coupler broke and the car crashed over the edge, rolling over several times. The detective grimaced to see the explosion had completely obliterated the caboose; there was no way the conductor could have survived it, he rued. And had anyone else gotten off before the other explosion further up...!?

"Monk!?" came an agonized shout at the other end of the baggage car. It was Christie, whom the detective surmised had been working on the car's brakes before the explosion had blown him through the windows. evidenced by the glass cuts on his face. "Monk, are you all right!?" his former partner crawled over to him.

"I, I think so!" Adrian had to shout to be heard over the scraping of the car's side against the rails, "How did this happen!? The captain and Natalie swore this train was clear; the bomb squad checked it twice! How did they plant these bombs!!?? Never mind!" he cut Christie off before he could posit a theory, "Did you see if everyone got off before the blast!?"

"I wasn't looking towards the car, but it looked like they did!" Christie assured him, "At least I hope so! Now we can get...!"

"HELP!!" came a plaintive cry from the car in front of them that made Adrian's heart stop. Christie also turned deathly pale. "TOMMY!!!" he screamed, glancing at the window. Adrian did as well and shuddered to see the child hanging on to the roof of the overturned passenger car, dangling inches off the ground. He was clearly losing his grip, and they were going alongside a deep ravine; he would certainly be killed instantly if he lost his grip. The detective glanced up the track. A steep decline was just around the next bend, and already he could ominously see the bridge, completely torn down and wrecked, leaving a seventy foot gap between each side of the gorge it had once straddled. They had about forty seconds if they wanted to save the boy and live to tell about it. This was in fact apparently the first thought on Christie's mind, as the sergeant kicked out the window closest to Tommy. "Hold on Tommy, we're coming!" he shouted, starting to crawl out, "Monk, grab on to me; don't let me fall before I've got him!"

"OK, but don't pull me out too!" Adrian's voice was rising higher in fear as he grabbed his former partner's legs and braced himself against the window frame. Tommy screamed again as his car almost derailed off the ledge going around the final turn before the descent to the gap. "Just hold on a little longer!" Christie cried at him, straining to reach him.

"I can't hold on!" he screamed, and Adrian could verify he probably had about ten seconds left before he'd lose his grip for good.

"Just hold on!" his guardian was almost to him, but still short. "A little farther, Adrian!"

Grimacing, Adrian pushed forward as far as he'd dare. He heard the ominous sound of steel cracking and knew with a sinking pit in his stomach that Tommy's car was about to snap loose just like the car next to the caboose had a minute earlier or so. Fortunately, he had pushed Christie far enough out for the sergeant to grab Tommy's wrist just before he would have lost his grip. "I've got you, don't worry!" he cried to the boy. "Adrian, I'm going to toss him back to you; grab him and jump!" he shouted to the detective.

"There's no time!" Adrian saw the large gap over the river looming larger and larger, "Your car's going to break off and go over the ridge any second!"

"Monk, there's no argument here!" Christie told him, "If someone's going to die here, it shouldn't have to be you or him! I've had a good life, Monk; all I want from you in return for this is for you to find Trudy's killer for me!

"Joe, think what you're saying! I'm going to pull you both in!" Adrian cried, but he knew there would be no time to do that successfully given how far out Christie was and still jump off in time before the plunge, and he knew he'd have to let go of his former partner, who was bracing himself against the overturned passenger car to maintain his balance, if he wanted to be sure he caught Tommy.

"Sorry Monk, this is the way it has to be!" Christie did look scared at what he was consigning himself to, but there was also firm resolve on his face, "On three; one, two, THREE, JUMP!!"

He flung Tommy backwards before Adrian could do anything else to try and dissuade him. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, for at that moment the coupler snapped clean through, and the car toppled sideways off the ridge. Adrian stretched out and just managed to catch Tommy around the waist. As it was, he was leaning far enough out the window that Tommy's mass caused him to topple out of the car. He desperately jammed his feet against a large boulder and stopped the two of them inches from the edge despite the sharp pain in his femurs. Moments later, there came a sickening crash as the car impacted in the valley below. "Joe..." the detective mumbled numbly, too horrified to look down, nor to look down the track as the now two separate sections of the train hurdled off the edge of the tracks and crashed into the gorge as well. And what of everyone else, he thought with a terrible feeling flowing through his veins as he lay there clutching Tommy close, too numb to move; what if the sergeant had been wrong and some of the others hadn't gotten off in time either...?


	15. Death Stalks the Teegers

"OK, let's wrap it up," the Breckman Lake fire chief called down to his men working on the smoking wreckage of the train, "Our job here's done; let's let the crane crews get their business over with."

He walked over to his left. "You going to be OK, Mr. Monk?"

Adrian nodded softly, continuing to stare blankly at the wreckage in the valley below. More footsteps approached after the fire chief walked away; Stottlemeyer, the detective knew from the intonations on the ground. "It happened too fast for me to do anything," he mumbled numbly, "We were running out of track; the car broke away before..."

"You saved Tommy, Monk, that's all that matters," the captain, apparently uninjured, reassured him, but Adrian could tell he was barely keeping it together himself. "Anytime a cop goes down in the line of duty, no matter how often you see it, it's always hard to take," Stottlemeyer was barely able to hold back the emotion as he stared down at the wreckage, being slowly towed back up by large cranes, "Joe was dedicated to the job; he served and protected even when no one else believed in him. He should have been captain before me, he deserved it more..."

He lost control and let out a loud sob for a moment before fighting it back. "So, did you see Karen at all?" he asked the detective.

"No sign; she must have gotten off before I got back there," Adrian shook his head, not willing to tell the captain his suspicions just yet.

"That's a relief, I think," Stottlemeyer nodded, "Is he going to be all right?" he gestured at Tommy, staring over the cliff as well, looking miserable.

"I can check," Adrian wanted to make sure anyway. He slowly walked over to the boy. "Um, you're going to be all right about this?" he asked softly.

"What have I done!?" Tommy mumbled tearfully, "If I hadn't...!"

"No, no, it's not your fault," Adrian bent down and embraced him, "None of this is your fault."

"Yes it is! If I hadn't hated him so much...!"

"That has nothing to do with it, Tommy," the detective told him as gently as he could, "I'm glad you see Mr. Christie better now, but he didn't die because of you at all, you have to remind yourself that."

Tommy nodded uncertainly. "Thank you for catching me," he told the detective, staring at him with a new, accepting glance, "Listen, is it true what they all say that having me around you made your life all the better?"

"It is," Adrian told him, "That should tell you a lot about yourself, that you made me and Mr. Christie better people just by being you. I'd do anything for you, just as he just did."

"I know, now," Tommy conceded, "I'm sorry I didn't see him like that until it's too late now. He really was a good man, wasn't he?"

"Very," Adrian said, fighting back his own tears, "He saved my life too a little while before I met you. I think, in some way, it's good he got to go out a hero; the world deserves to remember him that way."

He pulled Tommy close. There came more crunching of footsteps as Sheriff Wallace climbed back up to the tracks. "Wow, that's a big mess down there," he told the detective, "I don't know how you got out of that all right, but you're pretty lucky you did."

"Any sign of what happened to the brakes?" Adrian asked him.

"In fact, looks like they got burned clean through by some kind of acid," the sheriff handed him some photos of the crash site. Adrian waved Stottlemeyer over to examine them with him. "OK, but how!?" the captain demanded out loud to no one in particular, "That train was searched from top to bottom; I looked it over myself! How was someone able to do this with the damn National Guard right out in front of the station!?"

Adrian again decided not to mention that, depending when and where she got off, Karen would have had the opportunity to do so. Then again, he remembered, she hadn't been the only one he knew that had broken off from the group for some other purpose...including, he gulped at the mere thought of the possibility, the captain himself...

"Well, it looks like they poured it over the brake line between these two cars here," Wallace pointed to one of the pictures, "If I recall, that might have been out of obvious sight of the crowd at the station and the National Guard, so whoever it was might have been in a blind spot to do that, and to plant the bombs if they stayed on the far side of the train while they did that. As for your detour down this line, SoPac reported one of their switchmen at the Zisk Junction dead in the bushes with his switch keys stolen. Oh, and before I forget," he dug out some more papers, "We also got the lab tests back on the bear outside your cabin; your water was spiked with heavy doses of warfarin, Monk."

"Tasteless, colorless; I wouldn't have known I was poisoned until I keeled over dead," Adrian mused softly. There came the rushing of more footsteps from up the tracks towards them. "Adrian, thank God!" Dwight gasped in relief as he pulled up, Atherton right on his heels, "I heard it was bad; what happened up here!?"

Adrian slowly related the grim news to him. "OK, that seals it, "Dwight nodded firmly, "The rest of Monkstock is off as of right now."

"You're sure...!?" Atherton started to protest.

"No Professor, this is final this time!" the producer yelled at him, "And if you really think going on is a viable option, then you take a good look at this boy," he gestured sharply at Tommy, "And see if you have the courage to tell him that the man who just saved his life is dead in part because you insisted we keep the festival going in spite of strong evidence we should have stopped after the fairgrounds were bombed!"

"Why are you yelling at me!? You had the final decision, and you chose to keep going!" his colleague shot back.

"Yes, I did, and I accept that what happened here is in part my fault too. So I'm sorry, son," he bent down to Tommy's level and lowered his head, "I'm sorry I caved in and let this happen. If I could bring Mr. Christie back for you, I could. Since I can't, though, I'm going to do the next best thing; Professor, call the acts scheduled for tomorrow and tell them we're cancelling the rest of the festival, then spread the word to the fans in town and see if you can arrange transportation for them back to wherever they came from. We're heading out straight from the cabin once we get back there."

"Uh, that may be easier said than done, Mr. Ellison," the fire chief came hustling up, looking grim, "We just got another alarm; someone just set your cars all on fire. They're all beyond salvaging, so it looks like you're all stuck here in Breckman Lake for a little longer anyway."

"WHAT!!??" Dwight almost doubled over in shock. He turned and raised his eyebrows at Atherton, who had looked hesitant at his superior's ultimatum earlier. "Well, maybe you're right, Mr. Ellison," Atherton conceded, reaching for his cell phone.

"I guess somebody's bent on making sure we don't leave before they can get me," Adrian ascertained, shuddering at the thought, "The important thing, though, is everyone else all right!?"

"For the most part, but not completely," his father-in-law sighed glumly, "Better come see for yourself."

Adrian wasn't sure he wanted to see, but he knew he had to. "Come on, come with me," he took Tommy's hand gently, "We'll get away from this place and get back to everyone else."

Tommy nodded softly. The rest of his group were a good mile and a half back up the track, he determined when they finally came into sight. Most of them seemed fine and were walking around with no problem. The one thing the detective noticed, however, was Disher standing by an ambulance with misty eyes as a gurney was being wheeled towards it. "Cathy," he realized, rushing towards it. Sure enough, it was Cathy on the gurney, clearly unconscious and on a respirator. "What happened to her!?" he demanded to the head medic, "Will she...?"

"She was pinned underneath the train after the bomb under the center car went off; landed right on top of her," the head medic informed him, "Right now she's in a stage nine coma; she probably won't be coming out of it for at least a week or two, if she comes out at all."

"She was the last one off besides me; I told her to go earlier, but she insisted on making sure everyone else..." Disher broke down in hysterics, "It all happened too fast, before I..."

"Randy, you did what you could," Stottlemeyer tapped him on the shoulder sympathetically, "These people will do what they can to bring her back for you. Now the question is, are the boys all right?"

Disher wordlessly pointed to the captain's sons, staring blankly up the tracks. Stottlemeyer rushed over to them. "You two OK!?" he asked them worriedly.

"We're fine," Max assured him almost defensively, "We almost had to be with Lieutenant Disher almost throwing us out the door ahead of everyone else. Is Mom...!?"

"She got off, I assure you, Max," Adrian spoke up, "I searched the whole train after we figured out we were a runaway; she was off long before then."

"Jared, you OK?" the captain asked his oldest child with concern. Jared's expression was a complete blank. "This wasn't supposed to happen," he mumbled numbly, "Not like this."

"Well you're alive, Son, and that's all that matters," Stottlemeyer pulled him into an embrace, "If anything had happened to you, I'd just want to die myself."

"Thanks, Dad," Jared managed a smile, "Hey, listen, I'm sorry if I was rough on you earlier; this all made me think a little, and I guess I really didn't give you the chance to explain yourself. If you were so bent on getting Mom off this train safe, you wouldn't have brought the devil woman up to spite her, right?"

"Absolutely not," his father rubbed his hair, clearly relieved that Jared had forgiven him, "If I'd actually want anyone to have died this week, it would have been the devil woman, as you call her. In fact..."

There came a hitching sound, followed by a yelp of pain. Adrian turned to see a second set of medics wheeling Troy on a stretcher, his leg heavily bandaged. "Oh no!" the detective groaned out loud. "I'm sorry, I really am!" he cried to the sky, as if apologizing to Dr. Kroger. He rushed over. "How bad is it!?" he asked Sharona, running along behind the team.

"He broke his leg in three places jumping off the train," the nurse explained to him, looking abysmal that her services were needed so desperately yet again, "But don't worry Adrian, apart from Cathy, he's the worst one; everyone else'll walk away from this more or less okay; I made sure of it myself."

""I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, Troy," Adrian gushed to the boy.

"Take it easy, Monk; it's not as bad as it looks," Troy told him, but he openly grimaced as his gurney hit a pothole along the tracks.

"Don't worry, kid; we'll take good care of you," the head medic assure him, opening up the doors to the ambulance...right onto Troy's head.

There came a rushing sound as Wendy came running up to the ambulance. "He's going to be all right?" she asked everyone frantically. Adrian joined them in nodding.

"Why does that mean anything to you?" Troy had to ask her.

"Because, I've found...I kind of like you," she told him, taking his hand, "I'd hate it if anything happened to you."

"Me?" Troy looked rather shocked, much as Adrian himself was that such an admission could spring up out of seemingly nowhere, "What could you possibly see in me?"

"I see someone who's desperate for someone to help him get on his feet again. I'd like to be that person when you're out. Not to mention I think you are rather handsome. So maybe this will help you get better quicker."

Without warning, she planted a kiss right on Troy's lips just before the medics lifted him up into the ambulance and slammed the door closed. With a loud wail, the ambulance pulled out back towards the highway. "Don't worry, he will be fine," Sharona assured a still worried Wendy, "I set the bone for them; it won't break any further."

"Mr. Monk," came Natalie's frantic voice. The Teegers were barrelling towards him from a clearing up the tracks, where Adrian could see the rest of his group mingling around. "Oh thank God," his assistant threw her arms around him, with Julie squeezing his legs in turn, "We'd heard what happened up the tracks; they didn't say whether you'd..."

"No, I'm, I'm fine, and thankfully Tommy is too, at least physically," Adrian squeezed the boy's shoulders sympathetically, "Sharona said everyone else is fine, apart from...?"

He gestured at the ambulance. "Yeah, I guess we lucked out getting off early enough," Natalie admitted.

"This was definitely Robert Montandon's work, the bombs that is," Turcotte announced, leading everyone else over to the detective, "This fits his M.O. to the T. Did the sheriff tell you anything else, Monk?"

Adrian laid out everything Wallace had said to him, finishing with the sudden news that their cars had been burned up during the accident. "Oh great," Jack Sr. threw up his hands in disgust, "So much for getting out of here while the getting's good."

"Oh, were you thinking of springing the coop before everyone else!?" Sharona glared at him suspiciously.

"Don't you start that again!" the trucker yelled at her, "I would NEVER try anything this low, Mrs. Fleming! And by the way, if I'm possibly guilty of this, who's to say YOU'RE not...!?"

"OK, OK!!" Dr. Bell hastily stepped between the two of them, "Neither of you has any proof the other is guilty of anything, so I suggest the two of you restrain from making any accusations like that until you do! Now, I know we're all rattled here given the gravity of what's just happened, but we've got to stick together until we figure out what's going on; right Captain?" he glanced at Stottlemeyer, who nodded firmly, "Now if we want..."

"Doctor," Adrian held up his hand, frowning. He was counting heads in the group, "Have any of you seen the Davenports or Harold?"

"Who cares about them?" Gail snorted with contempt, "They've been nothing but pains all week."

"Actually, Mr. Monk, I believe I saw Mr. and Mrs. Davenport talking to the cops, arranging transportation away from the crash site," Turcotte told him, frowning himself, "Mr. Krenshaw then offered to go with them, and I guess they agreed, since I haven't seen either of them since then, to be honest."

"When was the last time you saw them, roughly?"

"Oh, I'd say about twenty minutes ago."

"Twenty minutes," the detective mused, "That would have been plenty of time to get back to the cabin and..."

"Mr. Monk, you're not suggesting what I think you're suggesting, are you?" Julie looked up at him with a concerned expression. Adrian hung his head. "I'm sorry, Julie, but some of the evidence I have suggests that...that maybe, just maybe, either or both of your grandparents could...just possibly could...might be behind all this," he admitted glumly.

"Well if they are, they could be packing up and leaving now," Stottlemeyer realized. "Hey, Sheriff!" he waved to Wallace, coming up the tracks towards them, "We need a ride back to the cabin right now!"

* * *

"There they are, stop right in front of them!" the captain shouted to the sheriff as they approached the cabin. A taxi was parked out front (everyone's cars had apparently already been towed away; Adrian made a note to request seeing them at the next available time to see if they held any clues that would help), and Harold and the cabdriver were helping Bobby and Peggy load their suitcases into it. Wallace screeched to a stop, blocking the taxi's path out. "Hold it right there!" the captain barked, jumping out and striding over to the toothpaste magnates.

"We can't take it here anymore, Captain; we're going home before we get killed too, so don't try to stop us!" Bobby warned him, "Thank you, Mr. Krenshaw," he commended Harold, handing him another suitcase to put into the trunk, "You're incredibly irritating, but you've been a big help to us now."

"Oh, think nothing of it," Harold said with a wide smile.

"Sorry folks, we can't let you go now," Wallace folded his arms across his chest and shook his head, "From what Monk's told me, the two of you might be..."

"Monk's a liar!" Peggy screamed in the sheriff's face, "He knows full well we are not responsible for anything that happened here!"

"Then why were the two of you so bent on getting away from the scene of the crime?" Jack Jr. proposed, a triumph smile on his own face, "I'd say that was pretty suspicious of the two of you to leave before everyone else."

"Yeah, now that I think of it, the two of you were standing right by the door the moment we realized the train was out of control," Disher remembered, "In fact, the both of you jumped out the door the moment I'd said we had to get off."

"So, that doesn't prove anything, genius," Bobby snorted at him, "If you want to get a conviction on that, I'll just warn you it's too thin to..."

"You know, I don't like your attitude, Mr. Davenport!" Disher unexpectedly roared, seizing the toothpaste magnate by the shirt, "The woman I love is in a coma and may never come out; if you are responsible for this, you WILL NOT get away with it, and if you try to, I swear I'll...!!"

"Randy, Randy, come on, that won't help!" Stottlemeyer pulled him away, "Even if they are guilty, beating the crap out of them isn't going to bring Cathy back!" With a deep breath, he rounded on the Davenports. "We're going to have to request you let us search your belongings; if you say no, we'll get a warrant; in the meantime, you're staying here until this is over."

"That's what you think," Peggy threw open the back door, "Jonathan, Natalie, in the cab; we're leaving now."

Both her children, however, stayed firmly in place. "Are you two deaf!?" she berated them.

"No, and the answer's no," Jonathan growled, furious, "You and Dad can leave if you want, but my place right now is here," he stepped back and put an arm around Gail.

"I don't believe this!" his mother hissed, "My own children, stabbing me in the back! If I ever thought I'd live to see the day...!"

"Don't you get it at all, Mother!?" her son thundered, "Nat and I are not puppets for you and Dad to control! We are human beings and can live our lives the way we choose! Then again, I guess too much wealth DOES cloud the mind, because for the last forty years, yours has been as clouded as they come! I love this woman," he pulled Gail into a hug, "I intend to marry her eventually, and there's nothing the two of you can do to stop me! So no, I am not going with you now, and if you are guilty of the deaths this week, I'll happily testify against you in court!"

Peggy sputtered in rage. "You!" she pointed accusingly at her daughter, "You planted the seeds of rebellion in his mind! Well, for that, you get absolutely nothing in the will!"

"You think I want any of your money!" Natalie bellowed at her, "All right, go if it makes you feel any better; is that all their stuff!?" she asked Harold.

"Still one more trunk in the front room, I think," Harold told her. Natalie stormed into the cabin, fuming. "Mr. and Mrs. Davenport, we strongly demand you allow us to search your belongings," Adrian stepped forward to reason with them, "If we're wrong and you're innocent after all, you have nothing to fear. Now will you just..."

"Get out of my way!" Bobby shoved him to the ground, clearing the path into the cab.

"Grandpa, come on, he's right!" Julie stepped into his path, looking crushed that her family was collapsing right before her, "I don't want to believe it any more than Mom or Mr. Monk does; you'd make it so much better for all of us if you just went along with this and showed them your suitcases to prove it isn't you!"

"Well, if you know it isn't us, Pumpkin, we don't really have anything to say, except thank you for staying loyal; we'll remember that in due time," her grandfather brushed past her into the cab. His wife scrambled in after him just as Natalie came charging down the steps carrying the last trunk. "Here, take it!" she shouted at the top of her lungs, hurling it through the open window at her parents, "And then don't ever bother me again!"

"Like we would ever intend to!" her mother shouted back at her. "Drive!" she ordered the cabdriver.

"You won't get very far!" Wallace shouted over the taxi's engine starting up, "I'll have roadblocks set up within ten square miles; we will authorize a search of your belongings, Mr. and Mrs. Davenport!"

"Go backwards!" Bobby instructed the cabbie, who shrugged and shifted into reverse. The taxi peeled backwards around the cabin and out of sight. Adrian stayed in place. The woods were pretty thick in the direction they were headed, he knew, and the sheriff would be quick in getting the roadblocks in place. The Davenports wouldn't be going anywhere, he knew.

Suddenly yet another loud explosion rang out from behind the cabin. Adrian spun to see a large fireball arcing upwards from exactly where the taxi would have been. With a terrible pit in his stomach, he found himself racing around the bend, unaware if anyone else was following him or not. He came to a stop right behind the burning taxi. It was clear the Davenports and the cabdriver were dead; the flames had completely engulfed the cab and by now would have finished them if the explosion itself hadn't. But it wasn't them Adrian was thinking of at the moment. As seemed to be norm whenever he became entwined with a car bombing anymore, he was abruptly back in a now-dead parking garage, staring at a familiar car also burning, as a life more precious to him than the Davenports was also being snuffed out before him. "_Trudy!"_ he moaned weakly, sinking to his feet and reaching desperately towards the car, _"Trudy!"_


	16. Mr Monk Wants to Leave

He had only enough time t

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures..." Archbishop Fitzwater solemnly led the group in a prayer session for the Davenports, raising his voice to be heard over the humming of the tow truck lifting the front end of the taxi off the ground for transport to the police station. Adrian watched this scene somberly from where he'd stopped followed the explosion, only barely taking in the prayer. He'd scooped up and bagged the spare pieces of glass and metal for the police since then-after he'd allowed them to examine them where they'd lain to determine the bomb's schematics, of course. He'd deduced the same as the sheriff that the bomb had been in one of the suitcases, since the scorch marks on the frame indicated the explosion had originated in the rear of the taxi, but as all the luggage had been destroyed in the blast, it was impossible to tell which suitcase had contained the fatal device, or to get the fingerprints of the guilty party. While it would have seemed likely the bomb had been put into place and activated just before the Davenports intended to leave, Adrian knew there was a chance it had in fact been planted some time earlier, meaning that anyone could have done it again.

He glanced down to the dock and saw Natalie standing at the very end, staring out over the water, too choked up to attend the impromptu service. He felt sorry for her, having lost a dear friend and now her parents in the same week. He slowly made his way down to the dock. "Um," he fumbled for something to say again, "I, I had no idea this was going to happen; if I did, I would have stopped it given..."

"I know," she said softly and distantly, her eyes choked with tears again, "They were narrow-minded and sometimes unfeeling, but they were still my parents; I never wanted to see this happen to them, even if they were getting on my nerves all week."

She sniffed loudly. "Well, at least, if it's any comfort, it was a quick and painless way to go," Adrian did his best to reassure her, "They probably didn't feel a thing, I'll bet."

Her expression of disdain told him clearly he'd gone a little too far again. "Sorry," he said quickly, stepping backwards a little, then stepping to the side as Julie came up as well. Natalie turned and saw her. "Are you taking this all right?" she asked gently.

"Are _you_?" her daughter leaned into her side, "You're not feeling that you caused it, are you?"

"No, I know that, honey, but part of me...your grandparents, they were wrong about the things they said about me and your uncle and Mr. Monk, but I can't help thinking that...the last words they heard from me were terrible ones, as you heard; I'd hate to think they died thinking I hated them, that I didn't care for them at all; I always did, even when I disagreed with them like I did about loving your father and all that," Natalie admitted.

"I think they knew that, Mom," Julie understood, "And I think, wherever they are now, they'll remember you more as someone who brought them a lot of joy rather than what you think they'd see you as before...it happened."

Natalie almost laughed for some reason Adrian couldn't comprehend. "Well, I was wondering how I was going to cheer you up after this, but it looks like it's you cheering me up instead," she said with a smile, hugging her daughter close, "I'm surprised you're taking this so well, actually."

"Well, I will really miss them," the girl admitted, and Adrian could tell she had been crying hard as well, "But like you've said all these years, as long as..."

"Hold on," Adrian held up his hand. Sheriff Wallace was coming out of the cabin with something bagged in his hand. He walked right up to Harold and engaged in a heated conversation with him. "He's got something," the detective waved to the Teegers, "This might be the answer we're looking for."

He rushed over towards the two men. "Sheriff, what have you found?" he called out as he braked to a stop next to them.

"I was framed!" Harold shouted to no one in particular, "I've told everyone before I am not a killer!"

"Well, then how do explain these being under your bed, Mr. Krenshaw!?" the sheriff held up the bag, which Adrian saw contained C4, wires, and mechanical parts.

"I've never seen those before in my life!" Harold protested vehemently, "Someone must have planted them there!"

"Really? Well it's amazing that you came back with the Davenports earlier this afternoon," Jack Sr. retorted as he and the other remaining members of the group came over to see what was going on, "Since you were clearly so eager to help them load up, it would have been easy to plant that bomb when they weren't looking. Besides, you've had a tendency to disappear all week just before something terrible happened."

"I wanted to leave early too; that's why I came back with them!" Harold barked at him, "I did not plant any bombs on them or at the festival!"

"Mr. Turcotte," Wallace gestured the CIA operative to step forward, "You have some experience with explosives from what I hear; is the material here similar to the material used for last night's fairground bombing?"

Turcotte examined the evidence carefully. "I can say with one hundred percent certainty it is, Sheriff," he nodded gravely.

"All right then," Wallace drew his handcuffs, "Harold Timothy Krenshaw, you are hereby under arrest for the murders of Robert and Margaret Davenport, as well as twenty-three additional counts of murder one..."

"I'm innocent, I swear to you I am!" Harold bellowed as the sheriff handcuffed him, "This is a set-up, pure and simple; it was YOU, wasn't it, Adrian!?" he roared at his adversary, "You needed someone to bring down, so you chose me! I can't believe you'd...!"

"Oh just shut up, Krenshaw!" Disher roared at him, livid, "If Cathy doesn't come out of her coma, I'm going to wring your neck until it breaks clean through!"

He seized Harold by the throat. "No, Randy, don't!" Natalie pulled him off. "Let me handle this. I can't believe you!" she hissed at Harold, "We trusted you, and then you sold out to Dale the Whale!? I don't believe you could be that low, Harold!"

"What do you care, Natalie; you hated your parents as much as everyone else here; I know it's no skin off your teeth if they're dead," Harold retorted, "And since when did you ever trust me!?"

Livid, Natalie lunged towards him and had to be restrained by the archbishop. "All right, there'll be plenty of time for yelling at everyone else later, Mr. Krenshaw," Wallace led him towards his cruiser, "You're going into solitary for the meantime."

"Only if it's a ten by ten cell!" Harold snapped at him, resisting enough to necessitate several other officers to come over and push him inside the back seat, "And if it's been thoroughly sterilized from top to bottom! And if you put a new pair of cuffs on me; the left cuff on these is two inches wider in diameter than the right cuff; I can't...!"

He was muffled out as the sheriff slammed the cruiser door behind him. "You can go home now, folks, it's all over with," he told Adrian's group.

"I'll call the bus station and arrange passage on the first one with enough open seats heading for San Francisco," Dwight dug out his cell phone. "We did it, Adrian," he patted his son-in-law on the shoulder, "The nightmare's over now."

Adrian managed a nod, but deep down, something didn't quite seem right to him. Indeed, glancing through the cruiser's windows before Wallace pulled away, he thought he saw a fearful look on Harold's face at what lay in front of him-certainly not the expression a man guilty of so many murders might have upon being caught. He needed to check something just to make sure.

Wordlessly, he walked into the cabin, stopping when he saw Jonathan slumped in front of the window, Gail sympathetically rubbing his shoulders. "You, uh, taking it OK?" he asked his assistant's brother.

"Yeah, Monk, it's just...I never thought they'd go out this way," Jonathan admitted; he too had been crying, although not as much as his sister and niece, adding weight to his earlier words about feeling suffocated by his parents all through his life, "I thought there would be a longer stretch where they'd just fade away...I never thought of what it would be like to run the family company; I always thought that would be way in the future, something I'd never have to worry about. Now, just like that, I'm in charge of the biggest toothpaste company on the West Coast; that's a pretty big responsibility, one I'm not entirely sure I wanted..."

"You'll do just fine," Gail assured him. She seemed immune from the misery of the Davenports' deaths, and while Adrian couldn't blame her given how terribly they'd treated her all week long, there was just something a little suspicious about it, he thought. "We'll blaze a trail together and make it even better," she told him firmly.

"Well, if you think I should hold onto it," Jonathan shrugged, "I guess I'll call the board together when we get back and examine the options we've got; if it doesn't really look like something I want to do knowing everything, I'll have to consider selling to someone else; if it'll be just you and I, why should we worry about how much money we have? We could go to New York and look for plays; heck, I always wanted to act; Nat and I were in two high school productions together. Besides, I always wanted to see the Big Apple anyway."

"Well, you two can work that out; I've still got something to look into," Adrian told them. "Marsha and the archbishop said they'd be willing to comfort anyone who needed it, and Dr. Bell can probably help too if you need anything off your chests about what's happened."

He hustled upstairs and made a beeline for Harold's room. He was surprised to see Tommy sitting on the bed, staring at the walls. "Oh, hi, Mr. Monk," he greeted the detective cordially, "Since Mr. Krenshaw isn't going to be using this room anymore, I thought I'd stay in here for a while."

"Well, Tommy, I'd like to make sure of some things first before we confirm all the facts," Adrian told him, "Did they leave the outlines of where they found the bomb parts in here intact?"

"Should be; I didn't see them erasing anything," Tommy pointed under the bed. Adrian squatted down and examined the white outlines carefully. "Drat," he grumbled when he was done, "Oh double drat!"

"What?" the boy looked at him curiously.

"Harold's not the guy," Adrian admitted glumly, "If he was the guy, he wouldn't have thrown all the bomb parts all over the floor like this," he lifted Tommy down and pointed out the outlines, which were all over the floor in no set pattern. "Harold would have separated each part into different piles, in equal amounts no less. He WAS framed. Curse the bad luck; the one time I could finally have him..."

"So what do we do now, then?" Tommy asked him inquisitively; it was clear the case now had his interested piqued, "Call the cops and let him back out?"

"Eventually, Tommy, but I do think a couple of hours in prison would do Harold a lot of good, regardless," Adrian suppressed a snicker, "Meanwhile," he stared worriedly at the child, "That means our killer's still out there, and they're still out to get me. It's clear now they won't let anything stand in their way, so everyone else is in danger until they're caught...including you."

He put a protective arm around the boy. He heard Dwight out on the lawn below on the phone with the bus station, and the producer seemed somewhat agitated. The detective leaned out the window just as his father-in-law hung up, shaking his head. "Well?" Dr. Bell came over to him.

"They've only got two more seats on the next bus to San Francisco," Dwight shook his head in disgust, "I'd really have preferred we all leave together."

"So when's the next chance after that?"

"Not till tomorrow morning, Doctor. So as much as I hate to say it, we're pretty much stuck here another night, and heaven help us all with that," Dwight threw up his hands in disgust, "With absolutely nothing working security-wise, the killer could kill the rest of us at will before dawn."

Adrian knew he was right. And he also knew that since he was the killer's primary target, his presence at the cabin endangered everyone else. If they couldn't leave, he had to; perhaps he'd also flush the killer out by getting him or her to continue the pursuit of him, thus saving everyone else. "Um, listen," he bent close to Tommy and whispered, "Are all your things packed up?"

"Basically," Tommy told him, "Why, are we going somewhere?"

"I'd like to do everyone a favor here, and I also want to make absolutely sure whoever's behind all this doesn't come for you," Adrian told him, "Why don't you get your things together, and then meet me in the basement in five minutes? Don't talk to anyone or tell them what we're doing."

* * *

"Here you are, Mr. Monk, the last two tickets," the clerk at the bus station handed him a pair of tickets about ten minutes later, "Better hurry though; the bus will be leaving in about two minutes."

"Thank, thank you for your help; Tommy, this way," Adrian took the boy's wrist and pulled the collar of his coat over his head; the last thing he wanted to do was alert any fans on the bus that he'd be on it. He'd just barely managed to survive the trip through the tunnel under the cabin after he'd unsealed it; the walls had seemed to close in on him from every direction. Luckily, Tommy had been a boon to him during the trip and had managed to keep him calm enough until they'd come out at the fairgrounds again.

"Are you sure we're doing the right thing, Mr. Monk?" the boy asked him uncertainly as they climbed on the bus and slipped into the third set of seats on the starboard side.

"Absolutely, Tommy; no one else is going to get killed at the cabin if I'm not there," the detective nodded, keeping his head low to avoid being seen, "And you'll be safe too, so that's all for the better as well. And since I'm just going home, no one should really get upset."

There was a hissing sound as the bus's doors slid shut, then a loud hum as the driver pulled out onto the highway. Adrian breathed in relief; they were safe now. He had drawn up a note explaining everything and left it in his room; sooner or later, someone would find it and read it (he was surprised he'd managed to get out of the cabin without being seen in the first place, but somehow he had). He leaned back in his seat and exhaled. "You can stay with me for a while until they decide who you should go with," he told Tommy.

"So, it's true that I made you happier than you'd been in years when I was with you?" Tommy asked him, intrigued.

"More than you know, Tommy," Adrian smiled at him, "I don't think I had really, truly smiled since I lost my wife seven years before I'd met you. Having you around set me on the path to feel good about life again."

"I am sorry about your wife," Tommy told him, "I guess we have more in common than I thought at first, then."

"Yes, I realized that when we first ended up together," Adrian admitted, putting an arm around the child, "As I said earlier, I would have given a lot to be able to keep you, but I knew it just couldn't work out in the end. I'd just have been too demanding on you, too stringent to do things a certain way. That's how my mother was; I'd probably end up the same way with you."

"I don't know about that, Mr. Monk," Tommy told him sympathetically, "I can tell now you've got a good heart inside. Maybe you are the type of person I'd like to live with, with or without your COD or whatever it's called."

"OCD," Adrian corrected him with a laugh.

"Well, something like that," the boy laughed as well. "So, what's it like to have it?" he asked, interested.

"It's a blessing, and a curse," Adrian confessed, "There are days I'd give anything to be rid of it, and others where it's helped get me through rough patches. My whole purpose in life, you could say, is to put the world in order; without order, the world won't work right."

"Then why are you running away, Adrian?" came Trudy's voice unexpectedly to his left. Adrian spun to see his wife sitting in a ghostly bus seat in the aisle. "I'm, I'm not running, Trudy," he said, amazed she'd show up now, "I'm helping everyone else by removing myself from the picture. Now the killer has no reason to kill anyone else."

"But they're still at large then, and you're not around anymore to try and flush them out," Trudy shook her head, "Is that what you really want to do, Adrian?"

"Oh Trudy, don't word it like that," he begged her, "I'm leaving like this because I care for all of them; you know that."

"I do, Adrian. But the best way for you to show you care is to be there cracking that case," she told him, "You do that, and that guarantees no more killings. There could still be more now if you leave."

"Well...it's just...I don't know," Adrian was confused now. "What, what do you think?" he turned to Tommy.

"She's got a point, you know," Tommy said, "We're not really solving the case driving away from it."

"Well, I suppose...wait a minute, you can see her?" Adrian abruptly realized that Tommy's answer had signaled he did.

"I want him to see me, Adrian. Hello, Tommy," Trudy reached a vapory hand out and rubbed Tommy's head, "I can't thank you enough for bringing happiness back to Adrian's life. I've been so worried he'd never be able to live again after he lost me."

"Well, as long as he really isn't crazy..." Tommy said slyly.

"Oh he's not, trust me on that," Trudy smiled at him, "You know, if Adrian and I had ever had a son, I think I would have liked him to be a lot like you."

"Really, Mrs. Monk?"

"Really," she leaned forward and gave him a vapory kiss, "And I do wish nothing but the best for you; you deserve that much. You would be making a good choice if you lived with Adrian. He'd take care of you just like he took wonderful care of me during our marriage."

"Well, I guess I did," Adrian shrugged, "But then again, there's still the matter of the bombing..."

"Speaking of which, Adrian," she turned back to him, "Why hold on to the parking garage? Is that really the best way you want to remember me by? I'd thought we'd have happier memories than that that you'd want to hold on to."

"Well, it's just...that wall was the last thing you saw before...the end," Adrian protested, "It deserves to be preserved for all time."

"But I am being preserved for all time, Adrian. That park is going to be beautiful when it's completed. I'd rather be remembered for that than for a cold, ugly piece of concrete. Don't you agree? I know you do deep down."

"Um..." Adrian wanted to have a point to counter her with, but found he had none to give, "Well, perhaps..."

"See, I know you'll see the brighter path in the end," she leaned close to him, "So, now, what are you going to do about that killer?"

"Well," Adrian glanced hesitantly to the right, "You do know that if I go back, I'm putting Tommy back in jeopardy again."

"Some risks are just worth taking, Adrian," she reminded him, "And maybe if you're lucky, you'll find the finishing clue right off the bat. So what do you say?"

She stared at him so intently that Adrian couldn't have said no even if he wanted to. "All right, you've convinced me," he conceded, "You always were so good at that."

"I know," she teased him, giving him a parting kiss, "Go get them, Adrian."

She and the ghostly seat faded away. Adrian still wasn't completely sure it was the right thing to do, but Trudy had convinced him enough. "Uh, Driver?" he called out, standing up.

* * *

Due to company regulations, the bus could only stop at an official stop, in this case the town of Santa Croce near the I-5 junction. Unfortunately, as Adrian had found out when he'd checked the timetables after getting off, there was no return bus scheduled to go to Breckman Lake for the rest of the day. And so, he and Tommy slowly walked back up the highway towards the lake. Darkness had fallen and crickets had started chirping by the time they returned to town, and Tommy fell asleep after they'd stopped for a breather near the bait shop, so Adrian was forced to leave his luggage there with the owner (after making sure the man promised not to let anything happen to them; he promised in turn he'd be back for them first thing in the morning) and carry the boy back down the path through the woods to the cabin. He was completely exhausted himself and desperate to get some sleep of his own as he knocked on the door, noticing a light on inside. It flew open in a flash. "Adrian, oh thank God, where were you!?" Ambrose gushed, throwing his arms around him, "We've all been worried sick, we thought...!"

"Shhhh," Adrian hissed, gesturing at Tommy. "Oh, right," Ambrose realized, "Can I get you anything?" he asked his brother as Adrian stepped inside and gently laid Tommy down on the sofa.

"Just let me lay down for a while without disturbing me; I'm really tired out after a three hour walk," Adrian pulled a blanket over the sleeping boy, "Where is everyone else, out looking for me?"

"They split up all around the lake, and they left me here to hold down the fort in case you came back," Ambrose explained as they went upstairs to their room, "So where'd you go?"

Adrian explained the whole story, omitting the fact that Trudy had convinced him to come back; Ambrose was a rationalist who likely wouldn't believe such a thing, he reasoned. "Well, I'm glad you did come back," Ambrose told him, flipping on the light switch as his brother sat down on the bed, "Hey, we read your note; it does make sense that it's not Harold knowing what you said in it; the sheriff's trying to make the arrangements to have him released as soon as possible. You think of who else it might be while you were away?"

"No, Ambrose, I'm drawing a big blank on the whole case at the moment," Adrian admitted glumly, leaning back on the bed against the wall and staring blankly at the window. "What am I overlooking here? If only I knew why the person sold out to Dale, that would set everything else in motion, but solid, concrete evidence doesn't just pop up when you need it. It just doesn't, Ambrose..."

His hand slipped behind the side board of the bed as he was musing this. It was then that he felt it touch a paper of some kind lodged in there that he hadn't noticed before. Puzzled, he pulled it out and unfolded it. His eyes immediately went wide as he read what was written on it. "Oh no," he mumbled weakly, "Oh no."

"What, what is it?" Ambrose frowned at him, craning to take a look at what his brother was holding.

"This is it," the detective said faintly, "I've solved the case. This is what this whole thing has been all about."

"What does it say?" Ambrose leaned forward for an optimal look.

"Um," Adrian hastily put the paper behind his back, "Uh, all, all in due time, Ambrose. Uh, before that, I'll need you to call everyone and get them to come back here. I'll need everyone present to sum this up; they all need to hear this. And get me a spare cell phone if there's one lying around; I need to make a call to verify this."

"OK, if you say so," Ambrose shrugged and walked out. Adrian waited until he was sure his brother was out of earshot, then pulled the paper back out and stared glumly at it again. "It's all a lie," he mused miserably to himself, lowering his head, "Everything I was told was a lie. This changes everything."

He quickly buried the paper again as Ambrose came back with a cell phone. "Thanks," he told him, "Um, Ambrose, could you go downstairs and get everyone seated when they come back; I need to make this call in private."

"So it's really that serious?"

"It's more than serious, Ambrose; it's the end of the road in a lot of respects," the detective nodded miserably, "So a little privacy, please!?"

He raised his eyebrows again. Ambrose stared him down suspiciously, but left again. Adrian glanced out the door to make sure he wasn't going to listen in on the call anyway before dialing the phone. "Hello, Warden, this is Adrian...Monk," he said haltingly, "I, uh, I need to ask about the visitor's log at San Quentin for the last couple of weeks; I need it to confirm something I suspect right now."


	17. The Ultimate Betrayal?

"Well, thank you for everything, Warden," Adrian said glumly as he heard the front door open and loud voices entering the cabin downstairs, "Yes, all that's left now is to sum everything up, and you'll have another prisoner to lock up soon. Same to you."

He hung up and lowered his head. He didn't want to reveal what he knew now, but he had a duty as an officer of the law. With a deep, uncomfortable breath, he slowly trudged back downstairs. "Mr. Monk, oh my God!" Natalie immediately threw her arms around him, "Where were you!?"

"Well,..." Adrian laid out the whole story for her and everyone. "I did it because I thought I'd make all of you safer," he concluded.

"Well Adrian, it would be better to discuss these things with us first," Dr. Bell told him firmly, "You had half of us in fits thinking the killer had gotten to you."

"Yeah, next time, Monk, just let us know first if you want to leave early," Disher added, "We'd been searching all over the lake all afternoon."

"At any rate," Dwight stepped forward, "I reserved seats for us on the next bus tomorrow morning; it leaves at nine thirty, so we'll be out of here soon enough, although I would have preferred to be out of here tonight with the killer still at large."

"Has anyone else been killed that you know of while I was gone?" Adrian had to ask; seeing everyone else present at the moment put him at ease for the moment, but then again, as he knew from years in the field, things weren't always as they seemed in police work.

"Luckily no," Stottlemeyer shook his head, "And believe me, Monk, that's a relief like you can't believe after what's happened so far today."

"That's, that's something I'd like to talk to everyone about," Adrian spoke up, "So, if you'd all take your seats around here, I'll lay out what I know now."

"He solved the case," Ambrose asided to his father and half brother as they sat down with him on the sofa, "He wouldn't share it with me, though."

"Like I said, Ambrose, you'd find out in due time, and this is it," Adrian told him, hoping Ambrose wouldn't make a scene when the relevant information came out. He rocked nervously in place while everyone sat down in a circle around him in the center of the living room. "OK, first, I have to ask, you did get my note, I take it?" he inquired, "Ambrose said as much when I came in."

"We did," Disher nodded, "It makes sense, but I'm surprised it wasn't Harold; everything was pointing towards him."

"Well, Randy, that's what the real killer wanted us to think," Adrian said, "Like Ambrose just said, I have solved the case, and I know who Dale the Whale's agent is. But actually," his expression grew darker, "it runs a little deeper than that. One of you not only sold out to Dale, but has been lying to me from the day I met you. That person is not at all who they've told me they are."

There was low mumblings as everyone exchanged uneasy glances with each other. "First, before I reveal that person's identity," Adrian continued, "I do have other things to explain. Not least of all that I'm not the only one who solved it. It so happens Stephen Albright knew what was happening here. He was in this cabin before we arrived; it was him the Lewises saw. And he left this here," he held up the paper, "to tell us who he discovered was working with Dale."

"Let me see that," Stottlemeyer dug out his reading glasses and walked over to the detective. He squinted hard at the paper, on which was written Albright's message from the hotel in full:

_SATX020491VENUS _

"So?" the captain frowned, "What's it supposed to mean then, Monk?"

"All in due time, Captain," Adrian said evasively, folding the paper twice into four equal parts and pocketing it for the moment. "I should also point out," he continued, "That Avery McNall is not actually involved in this case. One of you decided with Dale when you met with him in prison-I just spoke to the warden at San Quentin, and he confirmed that the guilty party did meet with our friend Dale a few weeks ago-that having it appear that an OCD killer was behind this would throw me off onto the wrong tracks, so you made sure as many of the crime scenes as possible had OCD tendencies; as Dale probably knew all about McNall, it would be easy for him to tell his agent McNall's perks and tendencies to create the illusion that he was here. As Linda admitted she didn't hear Dale's phone conversation with the one of you who sold your soul to him in full, she can be forgiven for assuming McNall actually was here in Breckman Lake."

He reached over Becky and straightened the shade on the lamp next to her chair before continuing, "That person also made a sojourn up here a few weeks before this festival started to meet with Leo Kashner and Robert Montandon. The three of them set up a headquarters for Montandon to build his bombs-Dale must have suggested the Ellisons' old cabin, since he probably knew it was deserted from his research-and to determine the best places in the fairgrounds to plant the bombs once he was done making them. And that person was shown the tunnel under the cabin and exactly how to access it at both ends."

"Well that's all good and well, Monk, but the point is, who is the killer!?" Stottlemeyer demanded, looking impatient now.

"Who indeed?" Adrian looked around the circle, taking nervous breaths; he knew in his heart he couldn't hold off any longer, "Which one of you was desperate enough to keep something hidden from me that you'd turn to Dale to make sure it never came to light? Which one of you isn't who you've told me you are?"

He began slowly walking around the circle. "Is it a former CIA agent with ready access to weapons who knew quite a bit about the killer's methods this week?" he glanced at Turcotte as he passed him, "Or a former truck driver with a history of bad decision making?" he frowned at his father, "Or an instruction manual writer who's smart enough to know how to create false paths for us to blindly go down?" he looked his brother over, "Or a toothpaste company heir with quite a bit to gain for killing some of the victims?" he stopped for a moment by Jonathan, "Or a con artist with a history of rampant lying who'd do anything for a fast buck, perhaps?" he glared at his half-brother.

"It's not me, Adrian; hand to God, I swear it's not me!" Jack Jr. raised his arm, pale himself.

"Well, you can put your hand down, Jack, because it isn't you," Adrian told him, "No, the answer's a little more complicated-and painful-than that."

He continued pacing around the circle before finally coming to a stop. His face scrunched up with unbearable discomfort as he slowly turned to his right. "The truth is..." he started to say, choking up as he strained to spit out what he knew he had to say, "The truth is...the truth is...the truth is, the killer is a former bartender who's been living a lie for twenty years."

"What...what are you talking about, Mr. Monk; I don't..." Natalie stumbled to say as he turned towards her.

"Natalie, it's time to come clean," Adrian told her firmly, tearing up, "And that includes finally telling Julie what you should have told her twelve years ago even if it would have destroyed the bond between the two of you."

"I don't understand, Mr. Monk; what should I have been told?" Julie asked him, deeply puzzled. Adrian lowered his head again. "I'm so sorry, Julie," he mumbled very softly, "I wish this didn't have to come from me, but it's time you knew that Stephen Albright...Captain Albright...it so happens...he happens to...what I'm saying..." the tears started pouring down his cheeks in rivers as he tried forcing the information out, "Julie, Stephen Albright was your real father. Your mother had an affair with him behind Mitch Teeger's back."

Horrified gasps filled the room. "No, no of course he's not your father!" Natalie quickly told her daughter, but her face had gone white, "I don't know what he's talking about, but...!"

"Well I do know what I'm talking about. I'm sure you remember that drawer in Eileen Hill's...love palace that you made me swear never to look in? I can guess now what was in that drawer: pictures of you and Steve...stabbing Mitch in the back. In the meantime, when he came by here the other day, Albright left this to tell me it was you all along," Adrian pulled out the paper again, "A pen, someone?"

"Right here," Turcotte handed him one. Adrian set the paper down on the table and drew lines in between the letters-stopping several times to cross a line or two out and redraw them perfectly straight. When he was done, he held the paper up for everyone to see. Bracketed, it now read:

_SA | TX | 02 | 04 | 91| VENUS_

"San Antonio, Texas, February 4th, 1991," Adrian deciphered it for everyone, "Exactly nine months to the day before Julie was born, in a general area I know for a fact you and Albright had frequented in the past. And Albright knew the girl was his, didn't he?"

He turned back to his assistant, the tears continuing to flow. "He kept waiting for you to acknowledge the fact and leave Mitch for him," he said, choking on his every word, "But you didn't want a divorce; you knew that as the one who instigated it with the infidelity, you'd leave the courtroom with nothing, and on top of that your parents would probably have completely cut you off as well-and contrary to what you've told me over the years, deep down you didn't want that to happen at all. So you stayed with Mitch, but you kept looking for a way out, a way you and Albright could be together. Then Mitch got the call to head out for Kosovo, and you and Albright...you both saw...oh God...a golden opportunity to make everything right, at least as far as the two of you saw it."

He wiped at his eyes. "You made the arrangements in somewhere private, perhaps in a bar or a lonely road or something," he forced himself to continue, "So before Mitch took off on that final mission, Albright cut the wiring on the plane, knowing that if it went down in battle, no one would would suspect foul play, let alone go looking for the plane. The two of you were hoping he'd die instantly and that would be the end of it. But he lived. And he realized exactly what had happened. And knowing that his best friend and his wife had stabbed him in the back drove him stark raving mad. And so he went crazy and ran off, leaving his crewmates behind to think he'd been driven mad simply by the crash and had abandoned them out of self-preservation. But that didn't matter to you and Albright in the end; after all, alive or not, he wasn't going to say anything if he'd gone crazy, and they'd probably never come looking for him behind enemy lines anyway. And then you could rest easy knowing you could play the part of the grieving war widow, didn't you Natalie? Your brother said you were an accomplished actor in high school; as far as you saw it, it was just another role to play. And as an artist, I'm sure you grasped the irony of the situation; you'd spend the next twelve years trying to convince the world Mitch wasn't a coward, when you knew deep down that you had been the real coward, that you couldn't face the man you swore to spend eternity with and tell him you'd broken that promise to him."

"I don't believe you'd actually have the nerve to say that!" Natalie looked completely floored and stunned, "To say that I could actually be capable of something that cruel...!"

"Well I can give you some credit, Natalie; you did actually feel guilty afterwards for what you'd done," Adrian told her, "And you finally realized how good you'd had it with Mitch. So when Albright got back, believing he was going to have a family waiting for him, you told him instead that the relationship was off, and that he'd better stay away from Julie if he knew what was good for him. He agreed at first, and for a few years everything was fine; Julie had a father she could be proud of, and you could play the part of the war widow with no recriminations. But then Albright started believing you'd stabbed him in the back and decided to start fighting for his child. He started blackmailing you through the mail, threatening to bring you down if you didn't pay up to him. You did the best you could, but soon his demands got too much, and you knew you needed a way to make him go away. And that's where I came into your plan."

He sighed deeply. "There was an article in the Chronicle about me published a couple of months before we met, and Sharona was mentioned prominently in it as well," he recalled, "You knew there was an opening there, but at first you didn't know how to exploit it. Then you must have witnessed one of Sharona's meltdowns during the time she thought she was seeing the dead body; probably in the parking garage, I'll bet. And you saw the window of opportunity open wide. So you called Trevor up in New Jersey, probably after first searching for his phone number online-it's amazing what you can find on the World Computer Spider Web or whatever it's called-and told him to come right away, that his family needed him. And then you told him to tell Sharona that Benjy had called him instead, so she wouldn't suspect that she was being ushered right out the door by you."

"What? So you mean that...?" confused, Sharona turned to her son, who lowered his head. "I'm sorry, I...I really wanted us to be a family again, so I didn't say it wasn't me who called him," he admitted, "Since he seemed so willing to try to be a father again, I didn't want to say anything and ruin it for us."

"So what? Even if I did do all that, I simply brought them back together again, for a couple of months, anyway!" Natalie countered, "No harm done with that!"

"Perhaps not, but there was unmistakable harm with what you did next, Natalie," Adrian turned back towards her, sighing gravely, "You knew you needed a murder to get me to show interest in you. So you arranged for one: you checked the police reports in the paper, found the police were looking for the burglar who would break into your house for another burglary a few weeks prior to our first meeting-I can't really remember his name right now under the circumstances, as I'm sure you don't either-and decided from his prior record and methodology that he was the perfect choice for your plan. You then used the World Wide Computer Spider Web or whatever it's actually called to get his contact information as well to call him up and offer him a sizeable amount of money to break into your house and take something of value, maybe telling him you were planning to get back at an old boyfriend like Albright and would reward handsomely for it, perhaps?" he frowned at her, "You really didn't have any idea he intended to break into your house anyway to get that rock, but as long as the plan went perfectly, it wouldn't have mattered anyway. And it did go perfectly, because you conveniently left out phase two of your plan when explaining it to him, the part where you'd kill him before he left to ensure a dead body for the police to find. From there, it was a simple matter of insisting on having my services on the case, and then when we met face to face to spin your sanitized tale of what had happened to Mitch. And since you knew I would be so distraught over losing Sharona that I'd welcome any return to normalcy with a new assistant, I wouldn't examine your story any deeper than I needed to."

He took a deep, uncomfortable breath. "And so now, you had the law on your side," he continued, "So when Albright sent his next blackmail note after I hired you, you sent it back with a warning that you'd expose him to me as Mitch's sole killer if he didn't back off. And so he did, although he didn't like it at all. Oh sure, the two of you put on happy faces on the submarine and pretended everything had always been great between you, but that was more because he was interested in seeing the murder solved and knowing exactly whom you were threatening him with; if he could have exposed you there without threat to himself, he would have. And as time went by, he grew more and more bitter that his daughter was being kept from him. Which brings us back to the present: he must have called you few weeks ago and told you he was going to expose the affair and Mitch's murder-yes, it was murder no matter how you stack it-here at Monkstock in front of the fans, and not even the threat of being exposed himself was going to stop him this time. And you panicked, because you can't stand the thought of the perfect world you've created around yourself being shattered. And so in desperation, you thought for ways of getting out of this one, and the only choice you saw was to go to Dale; you didn't like it, and you hate everything about him, but you knew that if Albright spoke up, you could very well be joining Dale on death row for first degree murder. So you went to him and begged him to help keep your secret safe, and he agreed to help silence Albright for good if in turn you agreed to help him get rid of me for good. And that, Natalie Teeger, is what you've been doing all week; trying to uphold your end of that unholy bargain."

"You know, I don't appreciate this at all, Mr. Monk!" Natalie snapped furiously at him, "I don't appreciate how you can turn on me just like that after everything I've done to make your life so much better, and you know-YOU KNOW-I can't possibly have done what you're saying I did!"

"You think this is easy for me, Natalie!?" Adrian wailed at her, "It's not; this is the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life! I do appreciate what you've done for me; you've made the biggest impact of anyone in my life apart from Trudy, and I can't thank you enough for that! But I'm beholden to the truth above all else, as you had told me yourself during the garbage strike when I was desperate to end it any way I could, and if you're not willing to tell the truth now when it counts the most, then it's up to me to! You first tried the poison approach as part of Dale's scheme, and so at some point before we left for here, when you were alone in the apartment with me and I was distracted some way or another, you poured or injected the warfarin into my water; as many bottles as you could. But that got thwarted when I threw all the bottles out, ultimately killing the bear. While you were thinking of another plan of action, the Lewises announced they'd seen someone around the cabin; it was Albright, as I said earlier, planting this paper where you wouldn't readily find it, but you didn't know that just yet, only that the plan was in danger if I looked into it, so you called Robert Montandon and Leo Kashner at some point when you were alone and told them to dispose of the Lewises just in case, and so they did. Next you figured you could finish me off with the Kights, so you gave Marci a note at some point after we'd all split up, asking her to give it to me at some point later; it would have told me to go back to the cabin, that the Kights needed to talk to me about something, and you'd thought she'd assume they'd given it to you to give her. But Marci figured it out and didn't give me the message, although she only completely put it together a little while later. Actually, I'll back up for a moment; you did speak with Albright before you came on stage as you said, but it was a last ditch effort to get him to back out of his threat to expose you; not only did he refuse, but he must have told you he'd slipped Marci a note as well detailing everything, and that you would be outed at once if you tried to stop him. That, and your own note, which you knew would be incriminating if found since it was in your handwriting, were what were burned in Marci's room later that night."

"That does it. You've crossed the line now, Mr. Monk; I quit!" Natalie jumped up, "I quit, and I'm not coming back for anything this time! You want to abuse me like this even more, talk to my lawyer, because I'm suing too! Julie, come on, we're leaving!"

"No, you're going to sit down and listen to the rest of this, Natalie," Stottlemeyer stepped into her path and shook his head firmly, "Because a lot of what Monk's saying actually makes sense; you did take that week-long sabbatical a few weeks ago; that would have been plenty of time to case the lake."

"And you actually believe him!? I don't believe you, Captain; I thought we had more trust than...!"

"Natalie Teeger, sit down," the captain ordered authoritatively. Scowling, she did so. "Go on, Monk," he told the detective.

"You knew the schedule to the T," Adrian told his assistant, "You knew exactly how long you had till you were called on stage. You, Kashner, and Montandon slipped through the secret tunnel to the cabin when no one was watching, stabbed the Kights to death, then cleaned the cabin up to make it look like an OCD killer had done it; that would throw suspicion on Harold, who certainly had reason to be the killer. Just to throw us off even more, you suggested writing the bloody message on the walls as well to raise the possibility Trevor was alive and killing again; a second false trail would be helpful as well. The three of you waited several minutes in case Marci had given me the message and I showed up; when I didn't, you had to run back through the tunnel to get back to the fairgrounds in time; that's why you were sweating backstage. From that moment on, Marci was a marked woman, and the sooner she was taken out, the better. So after everyone was asleep that night, you slipped through the tunnel downstairs-taking my stilts so people wouldn't immediately suspect it was you once you were in costume-and met Kashner and Montandon outside the hotel. You delegated them to finish off Marci, but you wanted the pleasure of eliminating Albright yourself. And so, you went into the lobby, pulled the sword off the wall, rushed upstairs, cornered him in his room, and proceeded to decapitate the man who'd given you your child. Then you joined the others next door in destroying any evidence Marci may have accumulated, including wrecking her laptop, escaped with the two of them out the back, then came back through the tunnel-detouring up the side tunnel to the Ellisons' cabin when Jack Jr. came by with his dates-and nonchalantly slipped back into bed with none of us the wiser."

"He's lying, I swear to it!" Natalie snapped at the captain, "I don't know what he hopes to gain from it, but it's all a lie!"

"And it still all makes sense," Stottlemeyer mused, "So it was her who shot at you in the convention center and hit Shalhoub, Monk?"

"She used the pretext of trying to comfort Sharona to get out of the room," Adrian nodded grimly, "Kashner and Montandon had left her disguise and a rifle in the storage room. Unfortunately, from that height and distance, Shalhoub and I were too close together to her viewpoint, and she hit him by accident. She knew the best option was to just run away as fast as she could, and so she drove off the fairgrounds in Gene Nunn's car, which either Kashner or Montandon had stolen earlier in the week before we got here-another false path to send us down-then rejoined us all well after the fact."

"That's right; she certainly didn't comfort me after those bikers did what they did," Sharona was frowning now, "I didn't see her again until she came out of the crowd after the shooter was long gone." She scowled at her successor, "I hope for your sake he is wrong, because if you are behind all this..."

"I am not, and I don't know why you can't trust me!" Natalie shouted at her, "Come on, you all know me!" she shouted at everyone else in the room, "I'm asking you just once, who's side are you all on here, his or mine!?"

"That's going to depend on what else my son has to say," Jack Sr. retorted at her, "So she planted the bombs last night, Adrian?" he asked his son.

"Montandon did; she knew exactly where they all were, though; remember, I said the hit team planned everything out. The plan was that we'd all be on stage when they'd go off, and we'd thus all be taken out; thanks to Randy's smart move-in hindsight, at least," he nodded at the lieutenant, "of jumping into the crowd, though, that was thwarted as well, and we ended up with only moderate injuries."

"Yeah, and if I remember right, she was one of the first off the stage before that bomb went off," the trucker snapped his fingers, "Pretty clever, Mrs. Teeger," he told Natalie off, "but not good enough for the best detective on Planet Earth."

"You take that back or I'll sue you for slander too!" she threatened him, "It's easy to see why you left your family behind...!"

"By then you were getting desperate, weren't you, Natalie!?" Adrian continued with the summation, looking utterly crushed by now, "The train was your last viable option to take me out, so that had to work. There was good reason the National Guard didn't find any bombs on board; they and the acid were in your purse the whole time. You used the excuse of checking the train yourself to go and plant the bombs and dump the acid on the brake line, making sure to stay on the far side of the train so no one would see you. But that failed as well, and I still survived. You were down to just a single bomb, and you knew the chances of getting me without exposing yourself by that point were slim, and Dale wouldn't reward you if you didn't have my dead body to show him. So you decided to salvage something out of this, and that was getting rid of your parents, whom you hated anyway and would be happy to do in. When you went into the cabin to get their last trunk, you tossed the last bomb into it and dumped the remaining bomb parts under Harold's bed to frame him. Everyone would believe Harold had done all the killings, and he'd take the fall in your place."

"You mean...!?" Jonathan looked pale, "You mean, if I hadn't fallen in love with Gail here and had gone with them...!?"

"Actually, you should count yourself extremely lucky, because she'd been planning it all week as a secondary plot. Natalie hoped you would have gone with them even after they'd infuriated you all week," Adrian somberly told him, "Then the family fortune would have been all hers-insurance in case Dale went back on his word to pay her handsomely for killing me, and a clever cover for her to terminate her employment with me if I was still alive at that point and leave the country to avoid any chance of being prosecuted. You killed your own family, Natalie," he choked openly, "I hated this man for forty years," he pointed at his father, "But I would NEVER have killed him if we'd crossed paths during any of those years!"

He took a deep, heartbroken breath. "And there you have it, everyone," the tears were flowing down his face again as he turned back to face his assistant again, "Here's sweet, caring Natalie Teeger, who's done more good for me than anyone else apart from my wife-and who stands before us now with the blood of twenty-eight murders on her hands, including an unborn child, her parents, her husband, and the father of her child, all killed in cold blood."

"But you have no proof of anything!" she snarled murderously at him, "So this is nothing but an insane betrayal on your part, Mr. Monk, and I am not going to forget this as long as...!"

"Wait," Turcotte held up his hand, "We never did find the gun that was used to kill the hobo at the hotel; it wasn't on Kashner when he died, I know that much."

"That's an interesting point," Stottlemeyer nodded gravely, "Natalie, open your purse."

"No," she pulled it close, glaring at him.

"Natalie, if we're wrong you have nothing to worry about, now just open it and let us see!" Dwight pleaded with her.

"Not until you agree to trust me that I'm innocent!" she barked, "Because you all know he's wrong, and you're...!"

"Look, just give us the purse!" Disher grabbed it. He tried to pull it away from Natalie as she pulled back to hold onto it until it broke open. With a clatter, a gun toppled to the floor. "That's the one that was used," the lieutenant said solemnly, his eyes wide in shock to see solid confirmation of Adrian's summation.

"Mm hmm," tears were flowing down Stottlemeyer's face as well. "Natalie Jane Davenport Teeger," he could barely manage the words as he turned to face her, "I'm placing you under arrest for the murders of Timothy and Elizabeth..."

It all happened in an instant: Natalie dove for the floor, seized hold of the gun, aimed it right at the captain's face, and fired before he could react. Screams rang out as Stottlemeyer toppled backwards to the floor, motionless. "OH MY GOD...!" Disher was aghast.

"Terrific," Jack Sr. threw up his hands, looking more disgusted than shocked, "He should should have never said he was retiring; every cop that publicly says he's retiring gets popped; happens all the time in..."

"SHUT UP!" Natalie barked at him, rage contorting her face into something genuinely frightening. "Don't come near me!" she threatened Disher with the gun when he stepped towards her, "Don't anyone come near me or you're dead too! Julie, come on, we're leaving, now!" she snapped at her daughter.

"You killed him," she mumbled weakly, numb and heartbroken with abject horror on her face, "You killed my father...both my fathers..."

"I did it for you!" her mother roared, "Mitch Teeger would have killed Steve and maybe me if he'd ever found out, and think of what your life would have been if that had happened! I gave you a father you could be proud of by making him a war hero, and I would expect some gratitude from you for that, young lady!"

"Gratitude!?" Adrian was appalled, "Natalie, you made her live a lie for the last twelve years. Everything you ever told her was a lie-everything you ever told ME was a lie. What kind of life was that to make her live!?"

"A normal one!" his assistant shouted at him, "Just like she deserved!"

"Normal!? I can't believe you!" Sharona snapped, livid herself, "You abandoned your husband at the time in his life when he probably needed you the most, getting ready to go off to war! That's not normal, you slut, that's...!"

"Hey shut up, slut!" Natalie tossed the epitaph back at her, "I did what I had to do! And furthermore, you abandoned your own husband as well, and if you hadn't, he wouldn't have gone insane and come after my daughter, so you have no right to talk to me that way!"

"Oh I see; everything Trevor did was MY fault!? That's the most brilliant logic I've ever heard! Actually, you know what!?" the nurse jumped to her feet, fuming, "If YOU sent him back to me in the first place, then I can say YOU'RE responsible for everything he did since then!"

"I SAID SHUT UP YOU DAMN PROSTITUTE!" Natalie berated her.

"Don't you dare say that!" Benjy leaped to his feet as well, furious, "Don't you EVER call her anything like that again, or I'll...!"

"Oh grow up and learn that life's not the silver platter you want it to be, you little jerk!" the former bartender told him off. "And by the way," she rounded back towards her employer, "I CAN'T STAND YOU! I couldn't stand you from the day we met, and I'm glad that now we've reached the point where your usefulness is at an end so I won't have to put up with you anymore!"

"What about me!?" much as Adrian had feared, Ambrose looked completely crushed that the woman he loved was the killer, "Don't you feel anything for me then!?"

"Do you know what you are!?" Natalie leaned right in Ambrose's face and told him in no uncertain terms exactly what she thought he was, prompting Ambrose to burst into tears in complete grief. "Now you take that back, missy!" Jack Sr. shouted at her, putting his arm around his oldest son, "I won't let anyone talk to my boy that way!"

"Do you want to be the next to go!?" she shoved the gun in his face.

"Go right ahead and shoot me if it makes you feel better," the former trucker folded his arms defiantly across his chest, "But at least I'll go to my grave knowing that when all was said and done, I was a better parent than you are."

"I'm ten times the parent you are!" she screamed in his face, "I had the courage to stand up to everyone trying to oppress me, including my own family!"

"And they were still our parents, Nat!" Jonathan stormed up to her, aghast and furious, "I can't believe you killed them off after I did everything I could to stand up to them for you! And to know you threw Mitch aware like an old toy when he was no longer useful...!"

"What do you care!?" his sister yelled back in his face, "You were always their favorite anyway, and all you ever did to deserve it was kiss their worthless backsides for thirty damn years! Oh, I've waited so long to do THIS!"

Without warning, she pistol-whipped her brother over the head, sending Jonathan to a bleeding heap on the floor. "I said keep away from me!" she aimed the gun at Disher and Turcotte, who'd been creeping up behind her, forcing them to hastily retreat. "Julie, now, we're going!" she barked at her daughter. Petrified, Julie instead rushed for the cabin's back door. Her mother aimed the gun there. "Julie, I'll shoot!" she threatened, bringing her daughter to a very abrupt stop inches from the doorknob, "I swear to God I'm not joking, young lady; I'll shoot if you're not over here in five seconds!"

"So that's it, then? Your only child has now become expendable as well?" Adrian shook his head miserable, "Now I see the whole picture; you didn't make me try things because you cared; you did it because you're a bully who has to have it your way or not at all, and I was the perfect person for you to force your way on."

"Julie, now!" she barked again, ignoring him and ominously cocking the gun. Her face ashen, and shaking from head to toe in pure terror, Julie slowly turned around and walked in a stupor towards her mother with her head hung very low. "All right, come on, we're leaving!" Natalie seized her roughly by the wrist.

"You're hurting me!" she protested.

"NOW!" Natalie dragged her mercilessly towards the front door. Adrian hastily stepped into their path. "Can't let you go, Natalie," he shook his head, "As you said during the garbage strike, I have a duty to bring the true killer in any case to justice, even if it's clear now you were just being a hypocrite then. And don't blame me for figuring it out; this could have been avoided if you'd just told Julie and everyone else the truth sooner, before you decided to resort to killing Mitch off."

"She couldn't handle the truth, and I wasn't going to let my life get ruined then-or now!" his assistant shoved the gun into his face, "So you have three to get out of my way, or I swear to God I'll splatter your head (she inserted a rather nasty word before "head" that Adrian had once thought her incapable of saying) all over this cabin! One...!"

"I'm not moving, Natalie," Adrian shook his head, firmly rooted to the spot, "Shoot me if you want, but I have to do what's right, and that entails not letting you leave this cabin."

"TWO...!"

"By the way, did you also kill Trudy!?" the detective raised an eyebrow, looking sick to his stomach at the mere thought of that horrible possibility, "If you and Albright had been careless enough to make the plans to kill Mitch in too public a place, and Trudy had overheard you, you would have had to have killed her too to make sure the plot went ahead unchallenged. Jonathan was sending you money, he'd said, so you would have had enough to pay Nunn and Tennyson and anyone else involved, and it would certainly explain how you knew Trevor's number. And it would also explain your eagerness to work with me all these years, to make sure I wasn't getting too close to the truth..."

"**THREE!"** she started to pull the trigger, but Julie leaned forward and bit her hand at the last minute, causing the shot to go into the wall instead with a loud bang. The girl broke free and tried to run for it, but her mother grabbed her by the collar and spun her roughly around. "How dare you treat me like that, after everything I've ever done for you!" she shouted with almost frightening anger, "I'll teach you to disrespect me, you ungrateful little worm!"

To the horror of everyone watching, she delivered a brutally violent kick square to her daughter's face-so severe that the crack (ominously amplified by what sounded like vertebrae snapping) echoed loudly throughout the cabin, the nearby furniture was sprayed with a red coating, and Julie was lifted off her feet as she flew backwards, cracked her head hard off the wall, crumpled limply to the floor with blood exploding from her nose, and did not move. **_"GET UP!"_** oblivious to the fact that she'd violently incapacitated her only child-or perhaps done worse-Natalie stormed towards her, her foot rearing back to kick her again. Adrian knew he had to act fast. He grabbed her leg at the last moment, sending her toppling to the floor. "I won't let you do it, Natalie!" he cried, straining to hold her down while frantically squeezing Julie's wrist for a pulse, but to his horror finding nothing at all, which confirmed his worst fears: her mother had just broken her neck, "I won't let you take another innocent life to maintain your illusion of a perfect world! Now if you have any respect for me at all, please just...!"

Too late her saw her hand swinging back around towards him. With a roar of carnal rage, Natalie jammed the gun into his chest and fired. Adrian jerked backwards as the remaining bullets in the gun plowed-perhaps all too fittingly-right through his heart. So this had been what his dream in Eastbridge had been about, he rued to himself, and this was what Tom Redgrave had known about. He had just enough time to glance downward at his assistant, with pure hate etched all over her face, and wondered how he had failed to see the real Natalie Teeger during all those years, before everything started blacking out as he toppled backwards to the floor...


	18. The Price of Bad Dreams

...and bolted upright in bed, sweat pouring down his face in torrents. He looked around. It was still pitch dark outside; a quick glance at his watch revealed it was almost twelve thirty. He felt for his wrists just to make sure he was in fact still alive, and was relieved to find his pulse, while sped up, was still working perfectly. "Thank God," he exhaled in deep relief, "I think."

"You're awake?" came Ambrose's voice from the bunk above him, "That was one really intense dream you were having, Adrian."

"When exactly did I fall asleep, Ambrose?"

"Immediately after you told me that evidence doesn't just pop up out of nowhere. I figured you were worn out after a long week, so I just let you rest. Everyone came back about ten minutes later; they were really relieved when I told them...where are you doing now?"

Adrian didn't answer. He reached around behind the bed's sideboards and was ecstatic to find there was nothing there at all, and further, no paper or anything on the floor either. Still, he wanted to make absolutely sure his dream was in fact just a dream. "Be right back," he told his brother, hustling into the assistants' room next door. "Natalie?" he shook the figure on the top bunk. A quick slap to the face greeted him. "Adrian, how many times have I told you never to wake me up in the middle of the night!?" Sharona berated him in the dark.

"Oh, sorry, I thought you were on the bottom," he apologized.

"What's going on?" came Natalie's sleepy voice from the bottom bunk.

"Um, Natalie, I just have to ask: you, you didn't have an affair with Stephen Albright behind Mitch's back, and then conspire with Albright to kill Mitch off in Kosovo, did you?"

"WHAT!!!???" came the indignant reaction. From out of the dark a pillow abruptly walloped the detective in the face. "How can you even suggest something that terrible, Mr. Monk!?" Natalie upbraided him, "One, I would never break a vow like that to the man I loved with all my heart; secondly, Steve was like a brother to Mitch; he was emotionally broken for two weeks after he died! How could you come up with that!?"

"Just a dream; thank God, just a crazy, twisted dream...kind of like something a bad writer might come up with for unnecessary drama," Adrian mused, but he was glad Natalie wasn't the killer in the end.

"Well, remind me to kill that bad writer myself some day," disgusted, Sharona flicked the light on, "Thank you, Adrian; yet again you've spoiled another perfect night's sleep for me, but at least I can take comfort knowing that since we're leaving here tomorrow, it'll probably be the last time you ever do."

"What, where are you going now?" he asked his first assistant as she slid to the floor and started rummaging around in her nearest suitcase.

"For a drink," she retorted curtly, "The bar doesn't close till two, and since there's no way I'm getting back to sleep after you've come barging in here with that ludicrous theory that Natalie's the killer, I'll need some liquor to sooth the nerves back to normal."

"Sorry," he apologized again.

"Just be glad you didn't say I did it, Adrian, or I would commit murder right now by wringing your neck," she told him roughly.

"Granted. But still, I don't think you should go out there alone," Adrian argued, "If the killer sees you leaving the cabin on your own, you'd be an easy target."

"He's got a point, you know," Natalie climbed off her own bunk, "I'll go along too; not to drink, though."

"Someone say drink?" a sleepy Stottlemeyer stuck his head in the door, "I can't get to sleep myself; I could probably use a shot or two as well. What was all the yelling about over here, Monk; you were screaming and rolling around like fire ants were all over you."

"Just a bad dream, Captain," Adrian conceded, "Presenting the absolutely last solution to a case I'd ever want to see," he glanced back at Natalie, then quickly glanced away again when he saw she was dressing again, "And certainly not the solution all the fans would want to see either."

* * *

"Well, Adrian Monk, you decided to bless our fine establishment here before the festival ends," the bartender at the bar inside the hotel greeted the detective and his group as they entered about ten minutes later, followed by an ovation from the bar's other late night patrons.

"The festival IS over," Adrian corrected him, "Dwight Ellison gave the order to shut it down right after the train wreck this afternoon."

"He did?" the bartender frowned, "I never heard of that news till just now. Oh well, news does travel slower in these parts. What can I get for you?"

"What do you think he drinks!?" Sharona, still frustrated at having been abruptly woken up, snapped at him, "Give me a Miller Genuine Draft, on tap."

"Coming right up," the bartender took a glass off the shelf and to Adrian's immense pleasure cleaned it out thoroughly before filling it to the top. "Yep, almost forgot how picky you are with your beverages," he added to the detective, hefting a bottle of Sierra Springs from under the counter and placing it in front of him, "Enjoy it, Monk."

"Well, I kind of drink Summit Creek now, but I guess one for old time's sake wouldn't hurt," Adrian nonetheless tugged at the cap to make sure it was still sealed; luckily it was.

"Can I get you anything?" the bartender asked the captain and Natalie.

"Make mine a Bud Light," Stottlemeyer told him.

"I don't drink," Natalie shook her head.

"Gotcha," the bartender walked off to fill the captain's drink. "Rather strange he didn't know about Dwight's shutdown order," Adrian mused, "I would have thought hotel personnel would know right off the bat so they could make the arrangements to get everyone ready to go home immediately."

"Well, we were distracted most of the day looking for you, Adrian, so if you hadn't run off without telling us, maybe he could have," Sharona told him, taking a big sip from her own beer.

"As I was saying to Ambrose before I fell asleep, there's probably a big clue somewhere we're just not seeing," Adrian broke open the Sierra Springs' cap and downed a large quantity of the water, "Some angle we haven't seen it from. Now, the question should probably be, who of everyone else, if we think of it rationally, would hate me enough to want to kill me?"

"Wouldn't they all sometimes?" the nurse snorted between another swig of the beer.

"Seriously," Stottlemeyer smiled as the bartender set his Bud Light before him, "We'd better look at who wasn't around you, Monk, at the exact moment everything went wrong each time."

"Actually, if I were you folks, I'd just head back west to Redding and ask the staff at the county hospital," the bartender pointed at the screen of the TV overhead, "Someone tried to kill your old friend Mrs. Linda Fusco a few hours ago."

"What!?" Adrian stared at the screen.

"Yeah," the bartender nodded, "Two guys in black climbed up to her room on the drainpipe outside and tried to smother her with a pillow; she got away and dove right out the window to safety; they're still looking for her too."

"Really?" a quick glance at the screen confirmed this information for Adrian. According to the crawl at the bottom, the intruders had managed to kill a guard before escaping themselves. "I'll bet Linda's heading back this way," he reasoned, "She has nowhere else to run, and if she recognized her attackers, maybe she can tell us who they are this time."

"She's the last person I want to see around here again, Monk," Stottlemeyer sighed, "If she shows up at the cabin before we can get out of here, the boys will think I'm violating my word from earlier today, and this time they really won't talk to me again."

"Well I also hope for your family's sake, Captain that...oh no, not again!" the bartender sighed, glancing at the entrance to the bar. Adrian turned and saw Karen coming towards them--although stumbling might have been the more appropriate term, as he could tell she was violently intoxicated, staggering from side to side almost comically, and indeed, many other bar patrons were laughing at her. "Go ahead, laugh right away," she slurred at them furiously, "I've taken your abuse for the last three years, I can take anything you throw at me!"

Her words were somewhat blunted as she fell backwards over a table, promptly more out-loud laughter. "Help me Lord!" the bartender rolled his eyes in disgust. He stepped out from behind the bar and helped her to her feet. "I thought I told you to go upstairs and sleep it off this time, and not to come back until you had!?" he demanded.

"Moreover, Karen, what are you still doing here!?" Adrian turned to face her head-on, "I believe Dwight fired you from the documentary earlier."

"A big round of applause for everyone's favorite detective; he figured it out yet again," Karen tried clapping herself but was so inebriated her palms missed each other. "Well, Mr. Monk," she stumbled over to him, holding her fist to his lips as if it were a microphone, "How does it feel to have completely ruined Karen Stottlemarshall....Marshallmeyer...Meyermarsh...however she spells it...."

"Ruined!?" the detective frowned deeply, "Karen, just do what the man here says and go sleep this off."

"I will, and it'll be a really nice long sleep, but first, let's hear what Mr. Monk gets as a parting gift," Karen turned to an imaginary audience and bowed almost to the floor, "Or let's see what's behind Door #100; why, it's all the free beer he can drink!"

Abruptly she grabbed Sharona's beer out of her hands and threw its contents into Adrian's face. "And now for the bonus round, let's see if Monk can solve this puzzle!" she smashed the glass on the floor, leaving shards everywhere, much to Adrian's distaste, "And looks like he also wins a nice Hawaiian Punch!!"

She decked the detective hard in the face and grabbed for his collar. "Oh no you don't, woman!" her ex-husband pulled her off his go-to man, livid, "That's going over the line! You can say anything nasty you want about me, but I am not going to let you take your anger out on this man, who gave you...!!!"

Anger!? Who's angry!? I'm not angry," Karen decked him four times in the face in quick succession. "I'M LIVID!!!" she slurred furiously at him, "You, you, you, you, you, and you!!" she pointed at two additional imaginary people, "Turned everyone against me! Oh sure, boo all you want!" she hissed drunkenly at the now angry crowd behind her in the bar, "Of course you'd back him up; after all, I'm just Leland Stottlemeyer's angry, vindictive ex-wife who broke his heart and crushed his marriage for the pure pleasure of spiting him, even though I just stood up for what I felt was right. Well, I've got a nice parting gift for all of you before the end of the show," she showed the crowd something Adrian hoped to never see face-to-face again, "See all of you in Hell some day!" she roared, shoving both of Adrian's assistants off their stools before staggering out of the bar again. "What the hell was that all about!?" Sharona grumbled, furious and shocked by what had just unfolded.

"She's been drinking her brains out in here every night this week," the bartender shook his head, "Last night I had to have the bouncers throw her out after she started turning tables over. She came stumbling in here around nine tonight and was plastered in ten minutes; guess she couldn't take the hint that she makes business bad for me by coming back down here every five minutes. Sorry this had to happen to you all; I should..."

"She never drank before," Stottlemeyer frowned, "So why...?"

"Hang on," Adrian held up his hand, concern spreading on his face as he realized something he thought he probably should have seen earlier in the week, "Captain, she wasn't wearing her wedding ring all week."

"Well why should she, Monk; after all, we..."

"Not yours," the detective shook his head as horror slowly crept over his face, "James Marshall's wedding ring. THAT'S what this has all been about. And she just said she'd like to see all of us in Hell. Which means she might be...oh God..."

He spun quickly to the bartender. "What room is she in!?" he demanded hastily.

"Uh, 114, I think; why?"

"Natalie, call the ambulances and tell them to get here as quick as possible; Captain, Sharona, I'm going to need the both of you!" Adrian was flying out of the bar and up the stairs before anyone could say anything in turn. Time was of the utmost essence at the moment if Karen was going to do what he suspected she was. His suspicions were all but confirmed when the door to Room 114 proved locked when he tugged at the knob, and he could hear Karen crying hysterically inside. "Karen, don't do it!" he shouted at the top of his lungs through the door, "Think of the boys! What would they think if you did it!?"

"What, what's she going to do, Monk!?" Stottlemeyer came barreling up the stairs with Sharona in tow. "Karen, open...!" he started to demand at the door before abruptly falling silent as the sounds of hundreds of small objects hitting the floor could be heard, and Karen's sobs abruptly stopped at the same moment. "Oh my God!" the captain realized in horror what Adrian had already deduced. "Monk, help put your shoulder into this!" he shouted at his associate as he started throwing himself against the door, trying to break it down.

"Uh, well, maybe if we took the hinges off the edges first..." Adrian hesitated, reluctant despite the gravity of the situation to actually break the door into pieces.

"Oh move!" rolling her eyes in disgust, Sharona shoved him aside and helped the captain break the door down in about twenty seconds flat. And indeed a terrible sight awaited them: her mouth foaming, Karen was sprawled over the bed, her outstretched hand still clutching the medicine bottle out of which hundreds of pills of every size, shape, and color had spilled onto the floor. Frantic, the nurse dove towards her and started administering CPR while the captain desperately tried to dial his cell with shaking hands. "Yeah, get me paramedics up here now, everything you've got!" he cried, apparently trying to augment whatever Natalie was doing downstairs to speed up a response, "My ex-wife just took a colossal drug overdose; we need help A.S.A.P.!"


	19. A Sobering Revelation

Adrian nervously rearranged the magazines on the rack in the waiting room at the hospital in Redding for what had to have been the seventh time. The clock above now read quarter to one in the afternoon. The ambulance had arrived in about five minutes thanks to the combined calls of Natalie and the captain (of course it also helped that they were camping out in Breckman Lake in case another crisis came to bear), and thanks yet again to Sharona's concentrated efforts, Karen had still been breathing when she'd been loaded into the ambulance. Since following it to the hospital, though, there had been little word on how further attempts to revive her had been, and Adrian didn't know whether the wait was good or bad.

"Something's got to be wrong," Stottlemeyer spoke up, agony wracking his face. He'd been pacing around, bleary-eyed, in the same tight circle for almost a full hour now, and had not had breakfast or lunch, "They wouldn't leave us in the dark this long if something wasn't wrong."

"Now Captain, it takes a lot of time sometimes with drug overdoses, and Karen took a whopper from what I saw," Sharona tried to reassure him, although Adrian could tell the strain was starting to get to her as well, "I've heard of operations for overdoses that last twice what we've had so far."

"Besides," Natalie chimed in, trying to look as reassuring as possible, "Don't you think we would have known long ago if she wasn't going to make it? That's my..."

"Monk, leave the damn magazines alone!" Stottlemeyer unexpectedly snapped at the detective as he reached over to rearrange them yet again. Startled, Adrian almost fell over in shock. "Sorry, sorry," the captain apologized. He sank into a chair and put his face in his hands. "Maybe the two of us weren't meant to be together, but the fact is I loved Karen like I loved no one else," he mumbled numbly, "She's narrow-minded and egotistical, but underneath that there's a sweet woman that few people get to see. That's the woman I managed to fall in love with so many years ago, and that's the woman that still means something to me even after everything that's happened. If she doesn't make it through this, if we were just a few minutes too late...how can I live with letting her die!? How can I face the boys and tell them the most important person in their life is dead because I was too late!? I've failed them too much in my life; I can't fail them with this..."

"They'll know that you did everything you could," Natalie patted him on the shoulder, "They'll understand, Captain, trust me."

"I sure hope so. Hey Monk, while you're up, change the channel; we have enough misery to worry about at the moment," Stottlemeyer waved at Adrian.

"What do you want on, Captain?"

"I don't know, just anything that isn't trumpeting how depressing the world is," the captain gestured at the screen, currently running breaking news of the theft of uranium from a nuclear plant just across the state border in Oregon. Adrian switched up to Channel 20--the nearest round number--sighing when he saw it was re-running another episode of Incredibly Stupid Celebrity Stunts, as every other station seemed to these days. He was reaching for the dial to see what Channel 30 had to offer when the door to the operating room opened up. "Leland Stottlemeyer?" called out the doctor that emerged.

"That's me," the captain leaped up, his lips trembling, "Well, is she...!?"

"Well, she was quite lucky you guys were right there when she ODed," the doctor told her, "Five minutes later and she would have been dead on arrival. We were able to follow up with what you gave to her on the scene, though, and I'm happy to say she's conscious again now, so if you want a word with her, you can; she's in Room 219."

"Oh thank God," Stottlemeyer breathed a tremendous sigh of relief. "You guys want to come in, or do you want me to see her alone?" he asked his associates.

"Up to you," Sharona shrugged, "If you just want it between the two of you..."

"Nah, we all helped save her; we all deserve the bow together," the captain said, waving them after himself through the doors. Adrian wished they'd chosen an even-numbered room to put Karen in, but he was too grateful she had survived to really complain. He was also pleased that the room appeared spotless when he entered it. Karen was lying awake in the bed, her head elevated upwards, looking at least reasonably normal considering what she'd been through. "Leland," she spoke up softly when he approached the bed first.

"That's me," Stottlemeyer told her, taking her hand, "And I can't begin to tell you how glad I am to see you alive right now. Don't thank me," he held up a finger when she opened her mouth again, "Monk got the urge something wasn't right at the hotel, Natalie called the medics, and Sharona kept you alive till they got there, so thank them instead. But before you do, I just have one king-sized question: why? Why would you want to throw away a promising career and two great kids, I want to know?" he was frowning at her now, "If it was because Ellison axed you over the film..."

"It was something a little more personal than that, Captain," Adrian spoke up. He walked up to the bed and rearranged the sheets so they were perfectly lined up at Karen's neck before looking her right in the face. "James Marshall's been cheating on you, hasn't he? It's been going on for months now, and you must have gotten positive proof and thrown him out just before the festival began. That's why you were so uptight with everyone; you needed an outlet to take your rage and frustration out on, and we provided it for you, given the qualms you've had with some of us before."

Karen broke down into tears, essentially confirming his theory for him. "I'm so sorry, Monk, I really am," she moaned tearfully at him, "I didn't mean to hurt you or anyone else here, I just...I don't know what I...yes, he was sleeping around for at least the last eight months--with a professional hooker, no less!"

"Damn him!" Stottlemeyer growled, furious, "I made him swear on his life to take care of you till the day he died! Well, when I find out where he's living now...!"

"Leland, come on!" his ex held up her hand, "There's been enough misery this week, and I've caused most of it! Don't you go do the same!"

"Wait, was that a confession?" Sharona leaned towards her, "Are you saying YOU were Dale the Whale's agent!?"

"Huh?" Karen looked completely puzzled, however, "What are you talking about?"

"Dale hired somebody to kill Adrian this week," the nurse told her, "Did he...?"

"No, of course not!" Karen shouted back at her, "I'm furious at him too; he said he'd pay me for his interview, and I haven't seen a cent from him since then!"

"Then why did you go to him in the first place?" Natalie had to ask, "You had to have known anything he'd say would be biased against Mr. Monk."

"I know, I just...that was right after I first knew for sure James was cheating; my head wasn't right for a good long while after that," Karen slumped her head back on the pillow, crying again, "My head hasn't been right for so many years. If it was ever right. I thought I was great, I thought I was on top of the world, and look at me now; I'm fifty-one and my whole life's been a waste...!"

"No, no, you haven't wasted it at all," Stottlemeyer rubbed her hair as she buried her face in his chest and completely broke down, "Don't think you've wasted anything, Karen. You've raised two great kids for one thing..."

"They hate me!" she confessed, "And who can blame them; ever since I've started directing features, I've left them alone at home for weeks, sometimes months on end; Jared hasn't spoken to me in three months; Max hasn't even looked at me since I missed his last birthday editing the suffragette film. I put my career before them, and now I'll pay the price till the day I die, which should have been last night." She looked up at her ex-husband. "I'm sorry for everything," she mumbled apologetically, "Looking back, I shouldn't have walked away, Leland. You were right all those times you said it when you thought I wasn't listening; I was an insensitive louse who didn't care what you thought. It was always me, me, me; it has been since the day I was born. You didn't deserve me. No one deserves me. I'm just a total failure."

She broke down again. "Karen Landau Stottlemeyer Marshall, you are not and never were a failure in my book," Stottlemeyer pulled her close, crying himself now, "If it makes you feel any better, the divorce was as much my fault too; I committed a lot of the same mistakes you did. Maybe we weren't meant to be married in the end, I can see now, but like Natalie told me then, every end is a new beginning. And even if we can't make it work as husband and wife, we can still be friends, and I'd like to be your friend as long as you need one. Now that's something a failure can't say they have."

He pushed her back and gently took hold of her cheeks. "Come on, dry those eyes, for the boys' sake," he told her gently, "They wouldn't want to see you like this, even if things are rocky at the moment with the three of you. If anything, I'm the perfect person to ask for help with that; sorry to say I have experience in that situation as well."

"Actually, Leland, it's more than just that," she confessed, wiping at their eyes, "I did sort of mean what I said before I left the bar; I do sort of feel trapped by the choice I made four years ago--perhaps a bit hastily, I can see now, since I refused to see your side of the story then--I feel like no matter how much money my films make, people will always see me as the wife who walked away from a famous police captain they care for a lot. That's why I needed to vent, Monk," she turned to the detective and hung her head apologetically, "That combined with all the bad reviews for my films I get no matter how much I try and James's infidelity; I was upset by all of it, and you were the perfect punching bag to take it out on; my mind was all messed up, and I couldn't help thinking that if you hadn't agreed to Leland's request to follow me around, maybe I wouldn't have filed for divorce, and I wouldn't be in this whole mess in the first place. So I resolved to get back at you, just like I've been getting back at everyone who's disagreed with me my whole life. Mr. Ellison was right to fire me; all I'd filmed this week was propaganda for people like Dale Beiderbeck who hate you. You deserve better than that. You deserve someone better than a failed director who can't make a good film if her life depended on it."

"Well, I actually liked that last film, Karen," Sharona told her.

"Don't try to cheer me up, Sharona; it was lousy. The critics were right, it was lousy to the core, just like everything I've ever filmed," she lamented miserably, "You were right there too, Leland; I'm a terrible filmmaker. I should have been sacrificing for you all those years rather than forcing you to sacrifice for me."

"Now what kind of marriage would that have been if you'd given in to me all the time?" Stottlemeyer rubbed her hair again, "Like I just said, I was wrong half the time too. And didn't your one film win that big award the one time? Not to mention the fact your documentary on Miles Holling solved that case for us when Monk was having trouble with it? That's not the mark of a failure, Karen. You've done a heck of a lot of good for this world. And if you need any help getting out of what the show seems to have made you, I can see to it the fans think differently; they'll listen to anything I have to say to them."

"Thank you, Leland," she said, a smile crossing her lips for the first time all week, "Maybe if we hadn't been putting each other down for twenty years, we could have been the perfect couple."

"Well, I'd settle for perfect friends any time," he pulled her close again, "That's a lot less of a hassle to keep in order anyway. And don't feel too bad about having carried a grudge; I held one against you just as bad right after the divorce too when you first had the alimony payments cranked up."

"Well, actually, that was Tepperman's idea," she confessed, "I thought they were fine at the initial level the judge set, but Tepperman kept crowing that as the wronged wife, I deserved as much as humanly possible, and I ended up falling under his spell. It's amazing the hold some people can have over the weaker-minded. Almost like a magician holding...what, is something wrong, Monk?"

His face taut, Adrian was making tense gestures with his fingers. "That could be it," he mumbled softly, "And if it is it...oh my God; how could Dale be that sick to corrupt...?"

"Who, who?" Natalie asked him. Adrian didn't answer. He bustled back into the waiting room and flicked the TV back to the original station. "...to reiterate again, officials at the Dratch Nuclear Power Plant outside Wachtel, Oregon have announced the theft of high grade uranium from their vaults, a crime committed three weeks ago and released to us only now in the interests of national security..." the anchor was recapping.

"That's it," the detective mumbled, "Oh, that was the reason for this; it was the most obvious motive out of anyone, and I dismissed it that it wouldn't have been possible..."

"What, what's going on, Adrian?" Sharona led the others back into the waiting room, "You know who did it?"

"Yes," Adrian nodded grimly, "And they're about to nuke Breckman Lake to dust as a last ditch effort to get me."

"Huh?" Stottlemeyer frowned, concerned.

"It was Robert Montandon the Lewises saw," the detective explained, "He was setting up a nuclear bomb from the uranium he and the team leader stole from the plant," he pointed at the TV. It was Plan Omega if nothing else worked to kill me. Dale's agent probably activated the bomb at some point today. If they used the caliber explosives I think they're using, half of Shasta County's going to go up if it detonates."

"Wait a second, nuclear bomb!?" the captain looked numb at what his go-to man was suggesting.

"You two, call as many of the others you can and tell them to get as far away from Breckman Lake as they can by whatever means they can," the detective commanded his assistants, "Captain, we've got to get back to the cabin and at least try to find and disarm the bomb in time."

* * *

"But you never told me who was behind this, Monk," Stottlemeyer told the detective anxiously as their taxi pulled in front of the cabin.

"If my guess is right, they'll come to us if we succeed here," Adrian handed two twenties to the cabdriver and waved him to leave the area as quickly as possible as he got out.

"So where the hell's the bomb squad!?" the captain looked around, disappointed and concerned, "I believe Ellison told Natalie he was going to get them over here when she called him!? And why the hell is no one evacuating; there was no one leaving the lake going into town!"

Adrian didn't say anything. This merely confirmed his theory, assuming Dwight's procedure after receiving Natalie's call had gone as he thought it had. The cabin was deserted when they entered. "Now would they put that bomb!?" Stottlemeyer could barely contain his extreme anxiety as he began pushing furniture aside in a desperate search, "We've been here all week; we would have seen something that would have been out of...!"

"I've got it," Adrian raised his hand, remembering something, "The furnace in the basement, Captain. I haven't seen it working all week."

Stottlemeyer snapped his fingers, realizing, and barrelled pell-mell down the basement steps. "You hear that, Monk!?" he announced, throwing on the lights. Adrian heard it too; an ominous beeping coming from the direction of the furnace. Squinting through the grate, his theory was confirmed, as a display showing 9,998 minutes to detonation glowed back at him. "Well, at least we've got a load of time to figure out how to disarm this thing," the captain reasoned as he took a look himself.

"Maybe not," Adrian shook his head grimly, "Some bombs count down exponentially; Montandon's enough of an expert to know how to rig it like that."

Indeed the timer was now down to 9,988 seconds. "OK, then, take a good, good look over this thing and tell me how to stop it," Stottlemeyer told him, searching himself for something to deactivate the device. Adrian glanced over the furnace from top to bottom. There didn't seem to be any wires or anything to cut. He hoped they wouldn't have to waste time taking off panels. Then, with the time accelerated down to 8,743 seconds, he noticed something. "The lever to bump down the silt, it's pulled pretty far forward," he pointed at it.

"So you think they activated it by pulling the damn thing forward!?" Stottlemeyer asked him nervously.

"So it stands to reason we can turn it off by pushing it back--but we should still be careful," Adrian spoke up as Stottlemeyer reached for the lever, "There's no telling which position the lever needs to be in to deactivate it."

"Well there's only one way to find out. Better get down, Monk," the captain instructed him.

"Umm," Adrian glanced down at the floor, which hadn't been vacuumed in three days, he could tell, "Maybe, maybe if I squatted behind the..."

"Just take cover then!" Stottlemeyer waved him off. Adrian squatted behind the pinball machine and watched with his heart in his mouth as Stottlemeyer grabbed the lever, crossed himself, and threw it back all the way. The furnace shut down with a low rumble. "YES!!!" Stottlemeyer danced a jig, "Now to make sure they can't turn it back on."

He grabbed a fire extinguisher off the wall and slammed it against the lever as hard as he could until it broke clean off. "Piece of cake," the captain exclaimed, relieved, "Now we just have to get the bomb squad and have them take care of dismantling the rest of this."

"Well, let's hope it's the end," Adrian walked back over and stared through the grate at the display, frozen at 7,031, "Let's hope he didn't have a second trigger on here that..."

Suddenly, there came the sound of a gun cocking behind him. "Get away from that, Monk!" ordered a familiar voice from the direction of the tunnel to the fairgrounds, "Hands up!"

"It's too late," Adrian raised his hands nonetheless, nodding as he realized his hunch had been right, "We've already disarmed it."

"But that still won't save you, Monk!" barked the voice, "I'm finishing what I set out to do this week; killing you."

"Oh my God!" much as the detective had thought, Stottlemeyer had turned deathly pale, "You can't...you don't mean...but why!!??"

"Simple, really," Adrian slowly turned around to face Dale's agent, "It was obvious, and I didn't see it till now. But the simple fact is, you blame me for the divorce. Don't you, Jared?"

"Very good, Monk," fury was etched on Jared's face as he walked towards the detective with the gun pointed right between his eyes, "I knew you'd figure it out eventually; unfortunately, it's still too late for you."

"But...why???" Stottlemeyer was utterly horrified that his own child had been behind everything that had happened that week.

"Why?" even more hate contorted on Jared's face as he stormed towards his father, "I'll tell you exactly why, _Leland:_ because you have to ask why."

"I...I...I...!" the captain stammered for words, "All those people, they ended up....and you...!?"

"Not just him, Captain," Adrian told him, "He was working in tandem with someone, namely..."

"Me," came another, older voice from behind Jared in the tunnel. "Atherton!?" Stottlemeyer gasped, seeing the professor pop up out of the tunnel holding a machine gun on them with a confident grin on his face.

"Only for the last couple of years," Adrian explained, "He's Avery McNall, Captain; he's been masquerading as Mark Atherton since he killed Joshua Kight and went into hiding."

"The pedophile!?" the captain gasped, "So this whole thing was that Jared was led astray by the pedophile who happened to kill the son of our hosts this week several years ago!?"

"Not led astray, Leland!" Jared barked contemptuously at his father, shoving his gun right in his face, "He's opened my eyes to the truth about you and everything! In fact, he's more of a father to me than you ever were!"

"Hey what's going on in...?" came Max's voice from the top of the basement steps. His eyes went wide when he took in the sight before him. "What is this!? Jared, what's...why are you...!?"

"Get out of here, Max," Jared threatened his brother, "This is none of your business."

"Why are you holding a gun!?" the younger boy stared stupefied at his sibling, "Don't tell me...YOU'VE been doing all...!?"

"I said get out of here, now!!!" Jared cocked the gun, "I will shoot, Max; Dale Beiderbeck put a price on your head too!"

"But...but..." stunned, Max continued to hesitate. Without warning, Jared aimed and fired a blast into the wall inches from his brother's shoulder, making Max jump in terror. "That's the only warning shot you get, Max," he snarled, "Now beat it and keep your mouth shut if you know what's good for you!"

Petrified, Max turned and ran away as fast as he could. "How...how...!?" Stottlemeyer looked almost faint at what he'd just witnessed, "Jared, he's, this man's just using you...!"

"SHUT UP!!" his son smacked the gun across the captain's face, "I'm so glad you came with Monk; now I can finish off the two people who most deserve to die in this world! Walk!!" he gestured at Adrian and his father simultaneously, "We're going back to the fairgrounds to give all the fans the perfect ending to this festival: the live death of Adrian Monk."


	20. Mr Monk and the Other End

"Couldn't we at least have gone around the lake?" Adrian complained as he was pushed along through the underground tunnel.

"When making you go through this tunnel would have made you as miserable as possible? I don't think so," Jared abruptly bent down, scooped up a fistful of mud, and flung it right into the detective's face.

"The divorce was no one's fault, Jared," Adrian frantically wiped the mud away; his captors had ripped his wipes apart before forcing him down into the tunnel to make him as uncomfortable as they could, "It was going to happen sooner or later, I can see now; your parents would have..."

"DON'T TRY AND BEG YOUR WAY OUT OF THIS, MONK!!!" Jared bellowed right in his face, slugging him right in the chest for added emphasis, "If you hadn't caved into this monstrosity," he jerked a contemptuous finger at his father, "everything would be fine today and I wouldn't have to kill you now!"

"You told him that, didn't you?" Adrian glared at McNall, "You filled his mind with what he wanted to hear so he'd blindly obey you."

"Well it doesn't really matter what I told him," McNall smirked cruelly, "The only thing important is that Jared's finally standing up for his rights against the people who've wronged him, namely the two of you."

"I can't believe you would do this," a still numb Stottlemeyer grumbled at the phony professor.

"I could say the same for you," McNall scowled at him smugly, "Sleeping around with Mrs. Fusco the moment your wife was out of the way."

"Huh!?" Stottlemeyer almost doubled over in shock, "You know that's not true, whoever you are; I didn't meet Linda till six months after the...!"

"DON'T LIE TO ME ANYMORE, LELAND!!" Jared shoved his father against the wall and started slugging him square in the face, "I know you kept that from me so I wouldn't know you were screwing Mom over! I know you were sleeping with the devil woman a year before the divorce! And don't you dare try to lie your way out of this one, because I will not be lied to anymore!!"

He finished his barrage with a kick square to the captain's chest. Coughing in agony, Stottlemeyer almost collapsed to the tunnel floor, his nose gushing blood now. "How did it come to this!?" he moaned.

"Dale's been protecting McNall here ever since he killed Joshua Kight," Adrian explained, glad to see they were finally approaching the end of the tunnel, "He gave him a false identity and had him on standby in case he needed his services, the price for his protection. Once Jared happened to pick the same university McNall was teaching at, Dale saw his chance. He knew the divorce had affected him deeply. It was a simple matter for McNall to get to him and pretend to be the good guy, telling him that he'd been wronged and he could get justice if he helped to get rid of man that he told Jared was responsible for it--me. It was nothing new for McNall; he played the father figure to all the children he molested over the years before betraying their trust in him and ruining their innocence. But Joshua was different; he fought back and managed to escape from wherever you had taken him after baseball practice that fateful day. And he probably made it abundantly clear he was going to tell his parents and the police everything about you, so you had to kill him to ensure your safety. And so you ran that boy down twice in the street, partly because of your own OCD and partly because you wanted to make absolutely sure he wouldn't talk. That was his reward for being brave enough to stand up to you."

"He had it coming, the little rat," McNall snarled, shoving open the trapdoor above them.

"It's a shame his parents are dead; it would have been an honor to see you saying that to their faces, and for you to see the misery you put them through all these years because you thought Joshua 'had it coming,'" the detective glared at him. A strong hand seized his arm and yanked him back into daylight. "Robert Montandon?" he guessed, looking straight at the unshaven man before him whom he could tell hadn't bathed in a while.

"Exactly," the bomber nodded smugly, "Yeah, Dale Beiderbeck's helped me out too, in case you're wondering."

"Cover us; we're taking him to die where everyone will see it," McNall dug a gun out of his pocket, in so doing sending a white bottle clattering to the ground. "Just as I thought," Adrian nodded at the sight of it, "The same medicine Dr. Kroger once prescribed for me. That's why the cabin was so spotless after you killed the Kights; you couldn't stand to leave a mess behind, so you, Jared, Montandon and Leo Kashner cleaned it up afterwards, making sure you wrapped their bodies in cellophane so there wouldn't be blood on the floor. Actually, I'll back up and sum this up from the start; once you got Jared to agree to help kill me, you had Montandon come up here and rig the nuclear explosion after he robbed the nuclear plant; that was him the Lewises saw. But he didn't know he was seen until Jared heard the conversation between me and them. He called you when he was alone to tell you, and that night you and Kashner killed them. In the meantime, Jared had poisoned the water while you were doing that, figuring I was a goner in the morning, but he forgot I won't touch water whose caps are broken. So you decided to lure me back to the cabin after you killed the Kights. Jared must have slipped Marci the note at some point when the two of you were backstage that first night. But you ran into a problem: Marci must have recognized you at some point; as a hardcore fan, she'd look into anything even remotely connected with me, and that includes the Kight's murder. Why she never shared that with me I'll never know..."

"Monk, we're going to die shortly, at least get to the point quicker," Stottlemeyer spoke up, groaning as his son rammed his gun into his back.

"Point being, Marci never gave me the note as you intended," Adrian glared at McNall, "So she had to die quickly, since you knew she'd spread the word on her network. You and Kashner broke into her room and killed her; Jared was just supposed to keep watch outside, but since Albright was trying to get in and help her when he got into position, he had to kill him quickly. Everyone else that night was just collateral for your escape. Of course, Avery, that worked out well for you, since that meant you inherited Marci's post, and thus would know my schedule for the rest of the week perfectly."

"And the message Albright was writing?" the captain inquired.

"I don't know what it was, but I can tell you it wasn't relevant to what's been happening this week."

"Hey Monk, I missed your autograph the other day," a yuppie ran up with an autograph booklet, "Can I...?"

"GET LOST!!!" Montandon shoved his gun in the newcomer's face. Pale, the yuppie ran off. "Of course, there was one small complication with the whole plan," Adrian turned to Jared, grimacing at what he had to tell next, "Dale had told you Linda had overheard him. Thus, you were on the lookout for her the whole time. When you saw her face to face with the captain, you knew you had to silence her quickly. The biker that came by was a lucky break for you. So you grabbed his pipe and made sure Linda wouldn't say a word then and there--your friends here," he looked at the two men, "Must have tried to make sure last night at the hospital, only she managed to get away. But back on point, Jared, that situation also gave you a cover to leave the fairgrounds without suspicion, given how much you hate Linda anyway. Everyone would assume you were simply upset about seeing her there and not question your motives. Only you didn't leave; you sneaked in through the convention center's back door and up to the storage attic, where the rifle was waiting for you. Only there was another problem; you didn't know I'd be sitting right next to Shalhoub, and thus you couldn't tell the two of us apart. So you picked one and fired, and that happened to be Shalhoub in the end."

"This way, Monk," McNall took him roughly by the shoulder as they approached the stage. A large crowd was gathered around it, listening to the final act of Monkstock--Carly Simon and James Taylor as it was--performing together. The mastermind steered the detective towards the rear of the stage, where unluckily enough no one seemed to be around. "We were all supposed to be on the stage here when that bomb went off," he continued the summation, "Montandon must have set the timers just right earlier in the day, to the time you told him. But thanks to Randy's spur of the moment thinking, or lucky break as it really was, we all survived again. So that left just the train. Montandon must have hidden the bombs and acid in a secret compartment somewhere you knew the authorities wouldn't check. Once on board after the inspection was complete, you and Jared got them and set them in place, staying on the far side of the train so you wouldn't be seen. As for the bomb that killed the Davenports, Jared must have slipped that in their suitcase some time earlier in the week. We were all yelling at them not to leave, we were all facing them; it would have been easy for you to slip inside and activate it before Natalie came for it. Then you planted the remaining parts on Harold knowing..."

"All right, that's enough Monk," Jared pulled him to a stop near a ladder leading up to the top of the scaffolding over the stage, "Up you go, all the way to the top."

"Um..." Adrian felt his blood freezing seeing how high it was to the very top, "Are you sure...?"

"UP!!!!" Jared rammed the gun into his back. "Give me that!" he snatched a microphone off a passing stagehand as Adrian reluctantly started climbing, his eyes squinted shut as far as they could go without closing. "Today, Monk, today!!" the college student shouted impatiently at him.

"He's going at whatever pace he wants, Jared; if you can't respect..." his father tried to plead to him as he too was forced up behind the detective.

"No, I don't respect him or you!!" his son bellowed at him, "The only thing you'll get out of me now is that he'll die before you! I said move, Monk!!"

Even with the threat of violence, it still took Adrian a good four minutes to climb all the way to the top. His head was spinning as he froze stock still on the narrow beam, trying not to look down. He heard screams from the stage below, followed by shots being fired into the air. "Everyone shut up and stay put!" he could hear Montandon yelling at the crowd, "We've got one final item on Monkstock's program for your viewing pleasure!"

The detective heard Jared's microphone hiss to life. "Ladies and gentlemen," the young man shouted down to the crowd, "The management of Monkstock in association with Dale Beiderbeck would like to present to you the grand finale of our show: the death of your hero Adrian Monk. Tonight before your very eyes, we will shoot him dead right here to end the week, and as a bonus, Leland Stottlemeyer, whom you put all your faith in, will justly suffer the same fate."

"Move, move!!" Adrian heard his father-in-law's voice over the hushed and stunned crowd below. "Jared!" Dwight sounded utterly shocked, "Don't tell me it's true YOU were the one who did all that this week!?"

"He sure is," McNall had apparently found a microphone of his own. He was leaning casually against the top rung of the ladder, taking the scene in with deep pleasure, "And he's done a darn fine job, I must say. Kill him now, Jared, and you'll be handsomely rewarded by Beiderbeck."

"With pleasure," Jared cocked the gun. "Jared, no!" Adrian heard Benjy cry over a microphone of his own on the ground, "Jared, come on, this isn't the way to handle it! Trust me, I can understand that you feel betrayed by him and your father. But if you pull that trigger, you're the bad guy here! They'll kill you for it, Jared; it's not worth it!"

"And haven't I told you I don't give a damn what you think, you damn idealist moron!?" Jared shouted contemptuously down at him, "There's no such thing as a loving family; family is all about stabbing the others in the back before they can stab you, and if you have even half a brain inside that inflated head of yours, you'll realize it as soon as possible! These two jackasses betrayed me, so they need to die for it, and so they will!"

"No, don't!!" came another, unexpected voice, one that sounded like it was halfway up to the top of the scaffolding. Sure enough, when Adrian dared to look down, there was Linda, still in her hospital gown, trying to climb up to the top. "Don't kill them!" she pleaded to her former lover's son, "These two men are good and decent people! They deserve to live more than anyone here at this lake! Kill me if you have to kill someone; I'm the one with the worthless, wasted life!"

Adrian thought he saw the captain start choking up a little as he saw Linda had truly undergone a change of sorts. "Oh I'm going to kill you all right, you ditch witch!" Jared wasn't swayed at all, which was probably to be expected given Linda was someone he hated beyond words, "AFTER you watch your dear precious Leland fall to that stage in a pool of blood!"

"JARED NO!!!" came one additional horrified cry. Adrian dared to look over the edge. His assistants were half-dragging Karen, also in her hospital gown (and with Sharona clutching an IV in her arm), towards the edge of the stage. "Oh my God, Jared, what did these people do to you!?" she lamented, looking with horror at Montandon aiming his gun at the crowd on the stage.

"They showed me the light, HAG!!" her son derided her, "They opened my eyes to so much in this world! You could say, in fact, that they're my real parents more than either you or him," he pointed contemptuously at the captain, "But of course, what do you care!? You hate him too; after all, since he was sleeping with the devil woman long before the divorce...!"

"Oh God in Heaven!" Adrian could make out the guilty tears in Karen's eyes even from a distance. "Honey, I lied to you!" she confessed to her son, "It was right after the divorce, I was mad at your father, and I wanted you and your brother to sympathize with me, so I lied when I found out he was dating again and told the two of you he'd been sleeping with her! If I'd known that would have led to this...!"

"Well it's too late now for guilt trips, because he and Monk die right now!" Jared leveled the gun right at Adrian's temple, oblivious to the screams of the crowd below. Adrian knew it was now or never to dissuade him. "So, McNall's your real father, Jared?" he spoke into the microphone, "Even though you know he killed Joshua Kight, who suffered what's probably the fate of anyone who crossed him? Suppose you don't have it in you to shoot us? Do you think he'll show you any mercy for not following through?"

"That's irrelevant," McNall snorted from the ladder, "Finish him now, Jared."

"No, shoot me first," Stottlemeyer spoke up loudly just before his son could pull the trigger on the detective, tears running down his cheeks much like his wife at the moment.

"Captain, it's me he wants...!" Adrian tried to dissuade his superior frantically; he couldn't bear to see Stottlemeyer die first.

"Monk, he's right, I deserve it," the captain sniffed. "Yeah, I failed you, Jared," he confessed with his head hung low, "I failed you in so many ways. And if you think I deserve death for that, then go right ahead and shoot me. I won't stop you or resist, because there is no crime greater than a father failing his son, so whatever you think I deserve, give it to me."

"Oh with pleasure," Jared turned towards him and put the gun barrel right between his father's eyes. "Remember this, Jared," Adrian made a last ditch effort to save the captain, "You may not like him, but he's still your father. I learned that lesson the hard way myself, but it's one we all have to learn. This man does love you, Jared, he always has, and even though his marriage to your mother didn't work out, he's always wanted nothing but the best for you. That's why he cheated with your age to keep you in Little League past your eligibility--perhaps not the best way to show it, I'll admit, but nothing you say or do will make him stop loving you, even if you pull that trigger. Because I've come to..."

"SHUT UP, MONK!!!" Jared roared furiously at him. "Say goodbye to your dear Captain Stottlemeyer, Monkstock!" he shouted down to the crowd, turning back to face the captain and reaching for the trigger...

...but suddenly a look of stunned surprised overtook his face before he could shoot. Perhaps it was the tearful expression on his father's face, or perhaps Adrian's words had gotten through somehow. But whatever the reason, Jared's finger wavered over the trigger. "Well, what are you waiting for!!??" McNall snapped impatiently, "Kill him!"

But Jared's hand was shaking harder now, and he now looked completely confused. "He's right," he mumbled softly, "He is my father..."

"And he destroyed your life; he has to die!" the pedophile bellowed angrily, "Now kill him and Monk, damn it!"

Jared put his finger back on the trigger and started to pull it...but abruptly dropped the gun. "I...I can't..." he started sobbing himself, "He's...he's not..."

"Damn you, Jared, I gave you an order!" McNall leveled his own gun at the boy, "Shoot them now, or I shoot you!"

"Not exactly what a father would do with his son, is it?" Adrian told Jared, "What does your heart say to do, Jared?"

"Don't listen to him; do what I tell you, right now, or you're dead!!" McNall threatened him, livid. Stunned and betrayed, Jared turned towards him. "You said you'd never hurt me," he mumbled softly, "Am I really just a thing to be used to you!?"

"That's it then!" to Adrian and the captain's horror, McNall fired. "NOOOOO!!!!" Karen's agonized scream also rang out from the ground as Jared hit the scaffolding, clutching his bleeding chest. "How could you do that!?" he cried to the man he formerly trusted.

"Because you're a worthless loser, Jared!!" McNall was livid as he climbed up onto the top of the scaffolding, "I ask so little of you, and you can't even follow through on that! Beiderbeck shouldn't have trusted you in the end! Well, I'm going to make sure you know there is a price for failure!"

"What are you doing!?" Jared was terrified as McNall planted the gun right against his forehead much like he had to the captain just a minute ago, "No, Mr. McNall, please, don't, I beg you...!!"

"You're a worthless failure, and you don't deserve to live!!" McNall started to pull the trigger...

"OH YES HE DOES!!!" Furious himself, Stottlemeyer jumped McNall from behind and pulled him down to the floor. Jared, get out of here!" he shouted at his son, "Get off this stage right now; don't worry about me!"

"You heard him, go!" Adrian urged him on. Jared didn't need a hint, though; he bolted back down the ladder like a flash. The detective leaped forward and tried to wrench the gun away from McNall. "Shoot him!" the pedophile shouted down to Montandon on the stage. Bullets zinged by Adrian's face forcing him to crawl backwards out of the gunman's sight below. There came a groan as McNall slammed the gun into the captain's ribs and bolted back upright. "So long, Monk!" he aimed square at the detective, who had no place to hide...

"No!" Linda finally had reached the top and jumped in front of Adrian. She jerked as four shots went right into her chest and slumped partway over the side. Adrian grabbed her wrist, but he could tell the damage had been fatal. "Do you think I'll make it to heaven now, Monk!?" she asked him weakly.

"Perhaps, Linda, perhaps," was all he could say before he lost his grip, which had been fairly weak anyway. He dared to watch Linda's body fall to the stage, landing with a thump on top of the drums, dead. At least, he reasoned, she had redeemed herself in the end.

"Well, she only bought you a minute, Monk," McNall cocked his gun again, "It's time..."

But suddenly a surprised look appeared on his face. Adrian could make out a loud Tarzan yell getting louder to his left. He turned just in time to see Disher and Jack Jr., of all people, swinging on the cable of a crane parked behind the stage--presumably to tear it down once the last concert was over--and coming to land on the scaffolding next to him. "San Francisco police!" the lieutenant bellowed at the pedophile, clearly with Cathy on his mind given the fury in his eyes, "Surrender now!"

"And what if I don't, smart guy!?" McNall derided him, "I know you don't have a gun."

"But we do have this!" Jack Jr. started making several crazy karate-style moves, "One false move and you get the kow-towing of your life from Kung Fu Monk--that's me--unless you let my brother go."

"He's your half brother!" the fake professor snapped.

"We're rounding up," Adrian and Jack Jr. said simultaneously.

"And I'm doing some subtraction!" McNall swung the gun towards Jack Jr. Adrian rushed towards him and struggled for control of the gun. That's right, take this!" Jack Jr. rushed over himself and started delivering judo chops and kicks--and hitting Adrian with half of them. "Uh, Jack, that's not really helping!" the detective shouted at him, trying to ignore his sore back. The distraction was all McNall needed to seize him by the collar and push him face-down towards the edge of the scaffolding. "Take a good look, Monk!" he hissed, "Don't try and pretend it isn't fazing you! You can't beat me and you know it!"

"Actually, there is one thing I have to say to that."

"And?"

"It's not as bad as it was a couple of years ago," while still feeling vertigo, it wasn't as bad as the vertigo Adrian had had in similar situations before. He pushed McNall backwards and wrestled with him for control of the gun. McNall struggled to hold onto it, his finger going for the trigger as they maneuvered dangerously close to the edge. Adrian tried to pry his fingers away from the trigger, but before he could, the gun discharged loudly in the narrow space between their bodies. The two of them looked each other square in the eye. "Who was hit?" the detective asked.

A quick look downwards answered his question; blood was exploding from the general location of McNall's heart. Shocked, the pedophile had just enough time to look down himself before he toppled sideways off the scaffolding and landed right on top of Linda, dead himself. The crowd broke into loud applause as a now panicked Montandon bolted off the stage--only to run square into Archbishop Fitzwater. "Forgive me Lord!" the priest shouted to the heavens before swinging his cane hard into Montandon's genitalia. Shrieking like a peanut whistle, the bomber sank in agony to the ground, where he was swarmed by fairground security. Adrian collapsed to the scaffolding deck, shaking all over. "It's over," he breathed. He glanced up at his half brother. "Jack, thank you, again," he commended him.

"Hey, brothers stick up for each other, don't they?" Jack Jr. slapped him a little too hard on the back, "Once we saw you were up here, I tried to find the best way up, and that happened to be it."

"Sure, take credit for my idea, will you!?" Disher upbraided him. He ran to his superior. "You all right, Captain!?"

"Yeah, I'm OK," Stottlemeyer heaved himself up, "Just get me down there as quick as possible so I can make sure Jared's OK."

"No problem. "Bring the line right over," Disher called down to the crane crew. "We'll get a lift down the easy way, is that all right?" he asked the detective.

"Well...I guess it would be better than the stairs," Adrian supposed. As the crane moved alongside the scaffolding, he seized hold of the cable with all his might. He couldn't help but look down at the stage below as everyone else grabbed hold, and the crane crew started lowering them down to the stage, and realized his assessment before McNall's death was true; the view from high up wasn't as bad as it might have seemed as early as a year ago. Maybe there was hope of overcoming his phobias after all if he was making progress there with one of his worst fears.

The crowd was going ballistic below him, chanting "MONK, MONK, MONK!!!" at the top of their lungs as he thankfully nonetheless touched down on the stage. He could hear something else over their cries, though; a cell phone ringing in McNall's pocket nearby. A smile crossed his lips; he knew who was on the other end of the line. Holding up his hand to make the crowd go quiet, he walked over and extracted the phone, then walked right over to the microphone at the center of the stage before pressing the button to take the call. "Avery?" came Dale's voice on the other end, "Avery, are you there? Is Monk finally dead? My time's almost up here!"

"Sorry to disappoint you, Dale," Adrian said into the phone as the crowd jeered the fat man's name, "Your plan failed. You want to know why? Because you don't know how powerful the concept of family really is. Jared couldn't bring himself to kill his father, because no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't sever the bond for good. I've come to learn myself that the bond between parent and child is harder to break for good than some people seem to..."

"Don't you dare give me a lecture, Monk!" Dale hissed furiously at him, "That's the last thing I want to hear right now!"

"Well, Dale, I don't suppose you'd understand since you never had a family," the detective was almost laughing now, "Ever since I came back into the world, I've started to realize more about the bonds of friends. I may not have the money you do, but I'm infinitely wealthier than you are. I have a wonderful family, a bigger family than you'd think...in fact, a family several million strong," he held up the phone so the crowd could let out another ear-splitting cheer. "Even if you had killed me, you wouldn't have killed me," he told the fat man off, "Love from everyone at this festival would have kept me alive for years to come, just like love kept Jared from blindly caring out your orders. So go ahead and rant all you want, Dale; it won't change the fact that you lost for good this time."

Dale sputtered in rage on the other end of the line. There came the sound of an iron door swinging open. "OK Beiderbeck," came the warden's voice, "It's time. Let's go take a walk on the green mile."

"This is not the end, Adrian Monk!" Dale continued shouted defiantly over the phone as he was wheeled out out his cell, his voice getting fainter as he got further away from the phone, "The state of California can kill me, but I'll continue my revenge on you from beyond the grave! My spirit will haunt you every night you can imagine, Monk! If if you think I'm giving you any more information on your wife's murder before the end, you can forget it, because I'm not giving...!"

The iron door of the execution chamber slammed loudly shut on the other end of the line, silencing the fat man for good. "A round of applause for Dale Beiderbeck," Adrian asked the crowd, who willingly obliged, "He's going to his grave with a tortured soul, just as it should be."

He turned to the wings to see where the others had gone. Medical crews were hunched in a circle around Jared just off stage, tending his gunshot wound. The detective bustled over. "Well...!?" he asked the head medic.

"Should be all right," the medic assured him, and next to him Sharona nodded in relief as well, "Didn't hit anything vital."

"Monk," Jared spoke up softly, terrible guilt in his voice, "I'm so sorry, Monk. It's hard to have to realize...what have I done!?" he broke down, "I cut a man's head off. He was right; I don't deserve to live!"

"Oh yes you do, Son," Stottlemeyer hugged his son, "I would rather die than see you dead."

"You saved my life up there," Jared told him, grateful, "I can't thank you enough...to think I believed that man was a friend...I'm so sorry, Dad. What am I going to do now!?" utter fear crossed his face, "Am I going to die for this!?"

"You're not going to die, Jared, I promise you that," his father assured him, "You're going to face what you've done in court like a man, but I promise you you will not get the death penalty; I'll do everything in my power to make sure of it."

"Still," several policemen walked up, handcuffs drawn, "He's still under arrest for his part in this conspiracy. "You have the right to remain silent, son; anything you..."

"What's the bail going to be?" Stottlemeyer asked the leader of the knot, "I'll pay it here and now."

"At least a hundred thousand, pal," the sergeant told him, shaking his head, "Good luck coming up with all that."

"Here, here's all I've got," the captain emptied his wallet, "He deserves to stay free until the trial."

"Can't take this," the sergeant shook his head at the mere two thousand in his hand.

"I have about ten thousand more," Karen rushed up, rifling through her purse, "Please, my ex-husband's right; he is our son; he shouldn't have to stay in prison until he has to."

"Well, I can't..."

"Let me," Jonathan stepped forward, digging out a checkbook, 'I'm now the head of the Davenport Toothpaste Company; fill this out for whatever you need it to be."

"You would do that for me!?" Jared was amazed, "I killed your parents..."

"Well, you saw how harsh they were this week to me and my fiance; you might not have done all wrong by it," he confessed.

"Jonathan!" Natalie elbowed him in the ribs.

"Only kidding," he said quickly, "Yeah, kid, I guess part of me is mad about it, but seeing how Dr. Atherton or whatever his name really was manipulated you, I guess it wasn't completely your fault. So here," he handed the check to the police, "Give him a break until you sentence him."

"OK," the sergeant shrugged and walked off with the check. "Thank you," Jared breathed to the toothpaste heir, "Knowing you can forgive me...even though I don't deserve it..."

"Of course we forgive you," his mother hugged him, "It's our faults too, Jared; your father and I, we never thought anything like this would happen from our own actions. We should have thought more about you and your brother--I shouldn't have lied to you about your father--and nothing would make us stop loving you, even this. What?"

"The two of you together, happy together again," he was clearly thrilled, "That's what I wanted more than anything in this world."

"We may not be married anymore, Jared, but divorce doesn't mean families don't have to be families anymore," Stottlemeyer told him, "Families stick by each other when they really need it; I was there for your mother last night, and she and I are going to be here for you through all this. You could have talked to either of us about how you felt at any time, and we would have listened to you. But don't worry; I forgive you for all this as well."

"I forgive you too," Adrian smiled at him; as with Jonathan, he knew Jared had been manipulated by Dale and McNall.

"I don't know," Disher was frowning, however, "The woman I love is in a coma because you have to sabotage that train. She might never come out of it..."

"Randall Disher," Stottlemeyer looked him square in the eye, "Forgive this boy. It's the same thing you'd ask of him if you were in his position."

Disher sighed. "Well, Cathy might come out of it anyway," he conceded. "I am glad you're all right," he told Jared.

"Thank you," the boy smiled at him. "Oh, Monk," he turned back to the detective, digging through his pocket, "I think these belong to you. It would only be fair to let you have them back."

He handed Adrian back one last pack of wipes. "Thanks," Adrian rubbed his hair, then tearing out a wipe and finally cleaning his hands off, "I really do appreciate this."

He could hear the crowd cheering his name on stage. "Well, might as well please them," he said, walking toward the stage, "Come on, everyone," he waved at his entourage, "We need to take this bow together."

"I would hope so, Adrian, given how I saved half the people who almost got killed this week," Sharona was half-grumbling as she led the others out on stage, "Speaking of which, I hope I'm getting a bonus for that."

"Why do you need a bonus? You've got income from the show coming in every week it airs in first run?" he argued.

"There you go again, Adrian, trying to weasel your way out of paying me and anyone who deserves to be paid. I swear, you are completely impossible when it comes to money. I have to wonder how your mind works, but I tell myself I don't want to know."

Adrian paid no attention. Somehow, he thought to himself, a large crowd didn't seem to phase him as much as it used to--to a degree it did, but not detrimentally. "Hello, Breckman Lake," he greeted the crowd, "I'd like to thank all of you for coming here this week to our festival. In spite of everything that's happened, I hope you had a good time here. I'd like to assure you my show will continue airing until I find Trudy's killer, and I hope you'll keep tuning in till the time it ends, because you're the people that make it special. You and my family, of course; my big extended family," he glanced fondly at his loved ones on either side of him, "All of you savor this moment, because it will probably be the last time all of us will be together," he glanced solemnly at his father near the end of the line, "But rest assured we'll be back next year with Monkstock II, and we'll keep coming here as often as you the fans keep caring for all of us. Thank you again, drive home safely, and remember to keep cleaning up every time you can, because like the theme says, it is a jungle out there."

The ovation that followed as he and his extended family took a large bow was absolutely deafening. Adrian, though, for once didn't care. He wanted to savor the moment as long as he could. For just once since Trudy died, he was in as close to pure bliss as he could get, for once completely surrounded by people who cared for him. He couldn't have written a better ending to the festival.

* * *

"You know if I do this, I won't be able to take it back," Adrian said later, standing at the edge of the dock back at the cabin, staring towards the setting sun.

"And I think you know what Trudy would want to see, Adrian," Dr. Kroger assured him. Adrian sighed softly. He stared down at the chunk of parking garage at his feet. Trudy's words rang out in his ears, "_I'd rather be remembered for the park than for a cold, ugly piece of concrete."_ Deep down, he knew Trudy was right. The park would be a better tribute to her. And so it was with this in mind that he placed his hands on the side of the concrete slab and pushed it off the dock into the lake. "And that's it," he said softly, "A big part of my life is over."

"But I'd say a new one's just beginning," Trudy materialized next to him, smiling, "Don't hold on to what was, Adrian. Living is the greatest experience we can have, and the only thing I want from you is to be able to enjoy every minute of it, even if it throws you curves every now and then."

"Well, I can't make any promises, but I'll give it a try," Adrian smiled back at her, "It, it would really feel good to really, truly live again. In case, uh, I should decide that I want to move on, be it with Natalie or anyone else..."

"Do whatever makes you happy, Adrian," she told him firmly, "All I want is for you to be happy again, even if it is with another woman. But if you need me to talk to, I'll be there. I'll always be right here."

"I know," he pulled her into a hug, "You never will leave me, Trudy Ann Monk."

"See, he's making progress," Trudy looked over her shoulder at Dr. Kroger, "Your sessions did work in the end."

"Yes, better late than never. I'm proud of you too, Adrian," Dr. Kroger shook his hand. For a moment, the three of them simply stood there watching the sun glow brightly off the autumnal foliage as it sunk ever closer to the horizon. There then came footsteps from the other end of the dock. "Adrian," it was Harold, and he looked grateful for once. Dr. Kroger and Trudy vanished as the detective's nemesis walked up to him. "So they let you out then, Harold?" Adrian asked him.

"That was the worst night of my life," Harold muttered out loud, "I don't know how other prisoners can take it, spending every waking moment in an asymmetrical cell." He turned to his foe awkwardly, "I would, though, like to say...to say...thank you, Adrian for springing me from jail. Given our history, I thought you would be happy to let me rot in there. I'm glad you put aside everything to bail me out, so let me just say, from the bottom of my heart, thanks."

He extended his hand warmly. Adrian stared at it for a moment. "It, it was nothing Harold," he cracked a smile, taking Harold's hand and shaking it, "We, we may not get along, but I don't let innocent men suffer. If we could start over from this..."

Without warning, Harold abruptly shoved him backwards off the dock into the lake. "As I was saying, Adrian, thanks...for nothing!!" he barked at the detective in the water below, "I know you had the whole thing set up the moment dead bodies started piling up; you were just waiting for the right moment to get me locked up and the key thrown...!"

Suddenly he too went toppling head first into the lake with a loud splash. "Harold," Dr. Kroger materialized again, a smirk on his face that hinted he'd been waiting a long time to do what he had just done, "I hate to break this to you, but you need to shape up if you want to avoid finding out your life has been without any discernible meaning."

"Chuck!?" Harold was aghast, "Chuck you pushed...why!?"

"You're hopeless, Harold," his former psychiatrist shook his head, "Unless you change, you have no hope. There's one thing that makes Adrian a better person than you, that has made him better since the time I first started seeing the both of you: he has a heart and you don't. And without a heart, Harold, you're doomed to remain hopeless."

"Chuck, how could you do this to me!" Harold whined, "I thought we were best friends!"

"Come on, Adrian, Harold's going to need some time to think over his life," Dr. Kroger gestured Adrian up the dock's ladder. "Chuck, no, wait, give me some hope!" Harold begged him, thrashing about in the water as the detective and the ghost walked away, "You can't side with Adrian on this; the two of us have too much going together! Don't leave me here, Chuck! CHUCK!!!!"

"Oh shut up you!" Tommy shouted at him from the end of the dock, "I can't blame Mr. Monk for not being able to stand you; it's clear no one can!" He flashed a smile at the detective as he walked past him. "So, am I going to stay with you, Mr. Monk, once we get back to San Francisco?" he asked the detective as they started walking back towards the cabin together.

"I would like that a lot, Tommy," Adrian smiled back at him, "At least until they decide who you belong with most. Even if they do put you elsewhere, though, you'll always be welcome under my roof."

"Good," the boy was quite pleased.

"Well, now that everything's in order here, I'm going over to the hospital in Redding," Dr. Kroger told his former patient, "Troy's going to need my presence until Madeline gets up there."

"You wanted to shove Harold in, didn't you?" Adrian could barely contain his glee.

"Harold had it coming from someone one of these days," Dr. Kroger was actually smirking, "And truth be told, I couldn't stand him when he smothered me any more than when you did."

"Good, you're making progress too," Adrian commended him.

"Good luck, Adrian," his former psychiatrist said in parting before fading away one last time. "Adrian, there you are," his father appeared from behind an oak with both his brothers, "The moving trucks are here, as are some special guests."

"Who?"

"You'll have to see it to believe it," the former trucker shook his head. "Boy, this week went fast," he remarked as the four of them and Tommy walked back towards the cabin and the sounds of engines growling, "Hard to believe we're all going our separate ways again so soon. Oh well, at least we'll always have this moment together for the rest of our lives, however long it may be for all of us."

He seemed melancholy at what was to be his fate, Adrian thought, but at the same time determined to meet his mortality head-on. "Well, any time you're in Tewksbury and want to stop by, Dad, the door's always unlocked for you," Ambrose told him warmly, "Same for you, Jack," he told his half brother, "And thanks for helping save Adrian,, too."

"Like I told him, Ambrose, that's what brothers are for. Which leaves just one member of this family that hasn't thanked me yet for it," Jack Jr. glared at his father. "Yes, Jack, I'm very proud of you for once," Jack Sr. admitted, "I didn't know you had courage in you. But I do thank you; it would have been a sad..."

He abruptly trailed off, staring at his youngest son's pocket. "Do not tell me you swiped McNall's wallet before the M.E.s took his body away!?" he demanded.

"So what if I did? He's not going to need it anymore?" Jack Jr. protested. Jack Sr. growled in frustration. "Every time, every single time he does something good, he always backtracks into his old habits!" he asided to his sons.

"I know, Dad. But somehow, I'm starting to think I wouldn't have Jack Jr. any other way," Adrian told him. His eyes widened as he saw who the special guests his father had mentioned were. For the bikers had returned, their motorcycles parked next to the moving trucks outside the cabin. "What are they doing back here?" the detective called to everyone as he bustled over to the knot of people by the cabin door.

"These gentlemen have stated that they wish to reform themselves, and so they're lending us their motorcycles to go home with," Archbishop Fitzwater explained to him.

"Yeah, sorry about the other day, Monk," Slasher patted him a little too hard on the back himself, "We are fans, after all, and if you don't have a ride home, we'd be glad to lend you our wheels for the occasion."

"I'm not the one you need to be apologizing to," Adrian told him sternly, jerking a finger at Sharona, standing next to the nearest moving truck glaring at the bikers. "Right, of course, anything you say, Monk," Slasher walked over to the nurse, "Sorry we were out of line with you, Mrs. Fleming. No hard feelings, I hope."

"That would depend on how sincere you really are," she grumbled at him.

"Hey, we've had time to think ourselves, and yeah, Monk here had you for seven great years, and if it wasn't for you, no one would probably even know who he is anymore, so we thank you for that as fans," Slasher bowed humbly.

"Good enough," she shrugged, clearly eager to just get away from him, "Let's get out of here, then."

"I must ask, though, how will you get out of Breckman Lake, then?" Dwight asked the bikers as they climbed down off their bikes.

"Oh, we'll get a bus or a train or something, don't worry about us," another biker assured him, "And we'll just pick up new wheels somewhere else."

"Actually," the largest biker spoke up, "If no one else is going to be using this cabin, would it be OK if we stayed here till we did get a ride back?"

He glanced at Dwight, who shrugged. "I don't really know who has the deed now that my partner's dead, so I suppose it would be fine as long as you guys don't disturb the neighbors or leave a mess," the producer reasoned.

"Thanks a lot, Mr. E. OK boys, go on and move your stuff in," Slasher directed his fellow bikers, "Monk, you can have my bike as a token of my respect."

"I'm, I'm flattered, Mr. Slasher," Adrian wasn't sure he was genuinely glad, but at least it was a ride home. "Hold it up there," he called to one of the workers loading up one of the trucks with his belongings. Climbing into the back, he dug out several boxes all marked H-7, stacked them on the ground, and opened them one by one to reveal crash helmets and goggles inside. "Safety comes first, of course," he announced to his group as they started climbing on the motorcycles, slipping on the first helmet himself. "Here you go, Tommy," he slipped a child-sized one on the boy as he lifted him onto Slasher's bike.

"You came prepared for me being here?" Tommy was amazed.

"Well, I never come unprepared for anything," Adrian told him, "I'll be right back."

He hefted a box of helmets. "Here's one for all of you," he handed it to his immediate family as they hopped on a bike with a sidecar to his right (Ambrose jumped in the sidecar, while Jack Jr. clung to their father's back on the bike proper).

"I will be glad to get home, though," Ambrose commented, slipping his helmet on, "Vacations are great, I've come to see, but having my own roof over my head is a plus onto itself."

"But you do admit you enjoy going out," Jack Sr. smiled at him, "Stay strong, Ambrose; I know you're going to beat that agoraphobia for good real soon."

Ambrose smiled blissfully. "Hang on, before you go, Mr. Monk, one more picture of the four of you together," Natalie walked up with her camera again, "Just so you all have something to remember each other by."

Adrian smiled as the flash went off, glad that for this one moment his family was as intact and whole as it ever would be. "Here you two are, then," he strolled over to the next bike, where Archbishop Fitzwater and Dr. Bell were ready to roll, "Hope the two of you enjoyed the week."

"We certainly did, Adrian, even if you and I didn't spend too much time together," Dr. Bell admitted, "But my family is going to love the tale when we do get back."

"I'm sure they will," the archbishop agreed, "Just be sure to hold on tight, Neven; I do have a little bit of the speed demon alive in me from my younger days. And thank you for the invite, Mr. Monk," he thanked the detective, "I've had more fun with you than I have in years."

Adrian nodded. "Dwight, Marsha," he handed the next set of helmets to his in-laws on the bike nearest to the cabin door, through which the bikers were still filing, "Thanks for putting all this together; apart from the dead bodies everywhere, it was fun, really."

"I still wish I'd've stopped it when I had the chance," Dwight looked regretful, "So many more people could have lived..."

"But Adrian wouldn't have caught the killer if we'd all left," his wife pointed out, "So even the bad times have a silver lining, as Trudy might well have said herself." She smiled at her son-in-law. "And thank you for keeping our daughter alive for the public, Adrian. Dwight and I have said it before, but we couldn't have asked for a better husband for Trudy than you. And don't keep fretting over her case; I have a very strong feeling deep down that you will finally bring the guilty party to justice before this Christmas, and you can quote me on that."

Adrian smiled warmly. "A pair for the two of you," he handed the next set to Jonathan and Gail, "And if, if I can give some advice, try not to get...too well known...before you actually become Mr. and Mrs. Jonathan Davenport, OK?"

"Anything for you, Monk," Jonathan gave him the thumbs-up (Gail, though, looked rather disappointed at this), "Remember, you've got front row seats for the wedding, then."

"You, you are going to follow the guidelines I gave you after the last one, right?"

"We'll see what happens, Monk," the new toothpaste company president told him. Adrian moved on. "A set for you two," he moved over to the bike Disher and Turcotte were riding, "And Randy, there's always the chance Cathy will come out of it, so don't hold the grudge on Jared until she's actually dead--if she dies, of course, which I hope never happens."

"I'll try my best, Monk," the lieutenant tried to put on a brave face, "Well, once we get back to San Francisco and start busting some more crooks, maybe I'll start feeling better. After all, then I'll be the man she loved, just like you solving cases keeps you being the man Trudy loved." He sighed wistfully for a moment. "So, John," he turned to his passenger, "What's next for you once you and Becky get back to New Jersey?"

"The same as before; anything she wants to do with me," Turcotte said, "So I've got it the easiest out of anyone here. At any rate, thanks for a great week, Monk," he commended the detective.

"Thank you as well, John; you were very helpful solving this case," Adrian thanked him. He walked to the next bike, where Becky was in fact getting settled behind her boyfriend. "So, Becky, in case I don't see you again after this, I wish nothing but the best for you and Benjy," he told her, "The two of you deserve a happy life together."

"Don't worry about us, Mr. Monk, I think the two of us are going to be just fine; am I right, Benjamin Trevor Fleming?" she smiled warmly at him.

"You know it, Rebecca Catherine Turcotte," Benjy gave her a big kiss, "Anything you want from me, you get with no questions asked." He turned to the detective, still smiling. "And if we also don't meet again after this, Mr. Monk, thank you for being there when I needed you all the time my mom was working for you. I've said it before, but I'll say it here too; you are my second father, and you made my life bearable when I needed someone to look up to during that stretch. If you ever do have kids, don't worry; you'll be a great father to them."

Adrian choked up. "I, I am sorry, genuinely sorry things didn't work out back in New Jersey for your family, Benjy," he admitted, "I would give a lot if I could go back and give you the perfect childhood after you moved there."

"Well, what I do have is good enough," the boy told him, "As long as I make life good for my own kids, why complain? That would overcome everything."

Adrian couldn't ague with that. "He's right," Julie agreed on the bike to the right as he turned to her and Wendy, "You've been my second father too, Mr. Monk, and you'll do great if you ever have kids of your own, be it Tommy or anyone else."

"Good, good to know that," Adrian nodded. "Um, Julie," he had to ask something that had been plaguing him since the rumors had started on the fan sites, "If, If by some chance...your mother and I...if we come to decide..."

"If the two of you get married?" she'd figured it out already, "If that's what happens, Mr. Monk, I wouldn't mind, and I won't be upset if it doesn't. All that's important is that you're happy one way or the other."

"OK, I'll, I'll keep that in mind," he nodded again. "So, Wendy," he turned to the gymnast, "You really sort of had it easiest of anyone this week. I hope you enjoyed it."

"Hey, not being in the line of fire is a big plus," Wendy told him, "But it was fun nonetheless. Julie's right; you deserve nothing but the best in life, so I hope that's what comes to you down the line."

"Thanks," Adrian walked forward, his box of helmets approaching empty. "Well, Captain, we made it," he told Stottlemeyer on the bike to the left of his own, with his sons in the sidecar.

"And it never felt quite so good to make it through," Stottlemeyer beamed, "So let's go back to San Francisco and find your wife's killer before I retire so we can show Dale up once and for all."

"Yeah, leave him turning in his grave," a clearly reformed Jared smiled at the man he'd so recently hated, "That should be his punishment for all eternity."

"Which you should get for trying to shoot me!" an unforgiving Max glared at his brother.

"All right, you two, let's try and work this out on the ride back," Stottlemeyer reprimanded his sons, "The two of you are still family, after all."

"Right, and family sticks together no matter how much they may not like each other, as I myself learned," Adrian added. There were only two helmets left to deliver. "Natalie, Sharona, again, thank you both of you equally for bringing me to where I am today," his commended both assistants, handing htem the final helmets, "I know there'll be a war over which of you was better till the end of time probably, but you're both the same in my book."

"As well it should be," Natalie nodded, clearly glad to share the credit. "So if we won't see you again after this," she leaned forward to look her predecessor right in the face as Sharona revved the bike's engine impatiently, clearly ready to just get on the road, "Thank you for making him learn to live again."

"Well, I do appreciate that, but I wouldn't be so final about it," Sharona told her, "I just have the feeling in my stomach that this isn't the end, that somehow, somewhere, my path will cross with Adrian yet again before he finds Trudy's killer. After all, I was sure it was the end when I left, and look how often we've crossed paths since then. But until then, Adrian, are you ready to go now, because I certainly am."

"I guess so," Adrian appreciated Sharona's admittedly eccentric ways of saying thanks. He walked back over to his own bike and sat down behind Tommy. "Hold on nice and tight," he told the boy.

"Just say we'll go a little fast," Tommy grinned, gripping the undersides of the handlebars tightly.

"As fast as you want," Adrian felt Trudy's hands around his midsection. He turned back and smiled at her behind him on the bike, glad she'd be riding with him. Nor was she the only one he could see; off on the far left, on a ghostly bike, were the Kights, and beside them in the sidecar was a boy Adrian had only seen in pictures--Joshua. Though they were all dead now, at least the Kights were together again--together forever. The detective flashed them a thumb-up. "Everyone ready?" he called to the group on their own bikes.

"Take us out whenever you're ready, Adrian," Dwight told him, enthused.

"OK," Adrian kicked down on the starter pedal and pulled the goggles down over his eyes. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Karen running around the cabin, camera in hand. Dwight had agreed to re-hire her after she'd profusely apologized for her actions earlier in the week, and she'd managed to get non-biased interviews with almost everyone back at the fairgrounds, to be edited into a new, fairer version of her documentary. He waved goodbye to her as she started filming their departure, and he saw Stottlemeyer and his sons warmly do the same as well. "First one back to San Francisco is...um...first!!" he shouted at everyone else as they started their own bikes, "Here we go, homeward bound!"

"Adrian, wait, don't leave me here!" sopping wet, Harold was barreling towards the cabin, looking panicked. He started shouting something else, but was drowned out by a large cheer from the bikers in the cabin as Adrian jammed down on the accelerator and peeled off down the dirt road. The wind in his face felt surprisingly good, and he started going ever more faster. "Yeah, ride like the wind, Mr. Monk!" Tommy cheered him on.

"If that's what you want," the detective was bubbling with joy, not even caring that dirt was flying everywhere from the bikes, or that they were letting out a deafening sound behind him. It all just felt so good. In no time, they'd reached the highway, where he slowly ground to a stop even though the highway was empty in both directions. "What, why are we stopping, Mr. Monk?" Natalie asked him as she and Sharona pulled up to his left.

"Just, just savoring the moment," he told his assistant, glancing back when he heard a loud backfiring. Harold had managed to secure a bike of his own--an outdated model that was trailing black smoke and weaving dangerously from side to side, threatening to dump his nemesis to the side of the road at a moment's notice. Adrian waited until Harold was close enough to feel like he was catching up, then opened his bike full throttle and roared down the road towards the west at almost eighty miles an hour, leaving Harold well in the dust. "Let him get back to San Francisco on his own time," he told Trudy behind him, "Say, you want to see something you've never seen before?"

"Like what?" she was grinning as if she knew what he was going to do.

"Like me enjoying the freedom of living for once, namely doing this," he reared his bike up on its rear wheels. "That's it, Adrian, show us what you've got!" he heard his father shout proudly as applause rang out from the rest of his extended family behind him.

"You think that's something," he called back to them, "Catch me if you can!"

With an unexpected excited yell, he floored it and zoomed up the road at well over a hundred miles an hour, still up on his rear wheels. "YEAH!!" Tommy and Trudy yelled simultaneously, giving him proud smiles. And Adrian couldn't help agreeing with them--and also agreeing with Trudy's core sentiment about him as he sped off wildly into the sunset towards whatever the future held for him: that no matter what else was to happen from then on, for once it felt great to just be alive.

THE END

AND A SPECIAL THANK YOU TO YOU THE READERS FOR STEADFASTLY FOLLOWING THIS SERIES FOR THE LAST FIVE YEARS. IT WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN AS GREAT TO WRITE THIS WITHOUT YOUR SUPPORT.

BOB WRIGHT


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